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The Giver 

Lois Lowry 


Houghton Mifflin Company 


Boston 



For all the children 
To whom we entrust the future 


The Giver 




It was almost December, and Jonas was beginning to be 
frightened. No. Wrong word, Jonas thought. Frightened meant 
that deep, sickening feeling of something terrible about to 
happen. Frightened was the way he had felt a year ago when an 
unidentified aircraft had overflown the community twice. He 
had seen it both times. Squinting toward the sky, he had seen 
the sleek jet, almost a blur at its high speed, go past, and a 
second later heard the blast of sound that followed. Then one 
more time, a moment later, from the opposite direction, the 
same plane. 

At first, he had been only fascinated. He had never seen 
aircraft so close, for it was against the rules for Pilots to fly 
over the community. Occasionally, when supplies were de- 
livered by cargo planes to the landing field across the river, the 
children rode their bicycles to the riverbank and watched, 
intrigued, the unloading and then the takeoff directed to the 
west, always away from the community. 

But the aircraft a year ago had been different. It was not a 
squat, fat-bellied cargo plane but a needle-nosed single-pilot 
jet. Jonas, looking around anxiously, had seen others — adults 
as well as children — stop what they were doing and wait, 
confused, for an explanation of the frightening event. 


1 



Then all of the citizens had been ordered to go into the 
nearest building and stay there, immediately, the rasping 
voice through the speakers had said, leave your bicy- 
cles WHERE THEY ARE. 

Instantly, obediently, Jonas had dropped his bike on its 
side on the path behind his family’s dwelling. He had run 
indoors and stayed there, alone. His parents were both at 
work, and his little sister, Lily, was at the Childcare Center 
where she spent her after-school hours. 

Looking through the front window, he had seen no 
people: none of the busy afternoon crew of Street Cleaners, 
Landscape Workers, and Food Delivery people who usually 
populated the community at that time of day. He saw only 
the abandoned bikes here and there on their sides; an 
upturned wheel on one was still revolving slowly. 

He had been frightened then. The sense of his own 
community silent, waiting, had made his stomach churn. He 
had trembled. 

But it had been nothing. Within minutes the speakers had 
crackled again, and the voice, reassuring now and less 
urgent, had explained that a Pilot-in-Training had misread 
his navigational instructions and made a wrong turn. Des- 
perately the Pilot had been trying to make his way back 
before his error was noticed. 

NEEDLESS TO SAY, HE WILL BE RELEASED, the Voice 
had said, followed by silence. There was an ironic tone to 
that final message, as if the Speaker found it amusing; and 
Jonas had smiled a little, though he knew what a grim 
statement it had been. For a contributing citizen to be re- 
leased from the community was a final decision, a terrible 
punishment, an overwhelming statement of failure. 


Even the children were scolded if they used the term 
lightly at play, jeering at a teammate who missed a catch or 
stumbled in a race. Jonas had done it once, had shouted at 
his best friend, “That’s it, Asher! You’re released!” when 
Asher’s clumsy error had lost a match for his team. He had 
been taken aside for a brief and serious talk by the coach, 
had hung his head with guilt and embarrassment, and 
apologized to Asher after the game. 

Now, thinking about the feeling of fear as he pedaled 
home along the river path, he remembered that moment of 
palpable, stomach-sinking terror when the aircraft had 
streaked above. It was not what he was feeling now with 
December approaching. He searched for the right word to 
describe his own feeling. 

Jonas was careful about language. Not like his friend, 
Asher, who talked too fast and mixed things up, scrambling 
words and phrases until they were barely recognizable and 
often very funny. 

Jonas grinned, remembering the morning that Asher had 
dashed into the classroom, late as usual, arriving 
breathlessly in the middle of the chanting of the morning 
anthem. When the class took their seats at the conclusion of 
the patriotic hymn, Asher remained standing to make his 
public apology as was required. 

“I apologize for inconveniencing my learning commu- 
nity.” Asher ran through the standard apology phrase rap- 
idly, still catching his breath. The Instructor and class 
waited patiently for his explanation. The students had all 
been grinning, because they had listened to Asher’s expla- 
nations so many times before. 

“I left home at the correct time but when I was riding 


2 


3 



along near the hatchery, the crew was separating some 
salmon. 1 guess I just got distraught, watching them. 

“I apologize to my classmates,” Asher concluded. He 
smoothed his rumpled tunic and sat down. 

“We accept your apology, Asher.” The class recited the 
standard response in unison. Many of the students were 
biting their lips to keep from laughing. 

“I accept your apology, Asher,” the Instructor said. He 
was smiling. “And I thank you, because once again you 
have provided an opportunity for a lesson in language. 
‘Distraught’ is too strong an adjective to describe salmon- 
viewing.” He turned and wrote “distraught” on the in- 
structional board. Beside it he wrote “distracted.” 

Jonas, nearing his home now, smiled at the recollection. 
Thinking, still, as he wheeled his bike into its narrow port 
beside the door, he realized that frightened was the wrong 
word to describe his feelings, now that December was al- 
most here. It was too strong an adjective. 

He had waited a long time for this special December. 
Now that it was almost upon him, he wasn’t frightened, but 
he was . . . eager, he decided. He was eager for it to come. 
And he was excited, certainly. All of the Elevens were 
excited about the event that would be coming so soon. 

But there was a little shudder of nervousness when he 
thought about it, about what might happen. 

Apprehensive, Jonas decided. That’s what I am. 

“Who wants to be the first tonight, for feelings?” Jonas’s 
father asked, at the conclusion of their evening meal. 

It was one of the rituals, the evening telling of feelings. 


Sometimes Jonas and his sister, Lily, argued over turns, 
over who would get to go first. Their parents, of course, 
were part of the ritual; they, too, told their feelings each 
evening. But like all parents — all adults — they didn’t 
fight and wheedle for their turn. 

Nor did Jonas, tonight. His feelings were too compli- 
cated this evening. He wanted to share them, but he wasn’t 
eager to begin the process of sifting through his own 
complicated emotions, even with the help that he knew his 
parents could give. 

“You go, Lily,” he said, seeing his sister, who was much 
younger — only a Seven — wiggling with impatience in 
her chair. 

“I felt very angry this afternoon,” Lily announced. “My 
Childcare group was at the play area, and we had a visiting 
group of Sevens, and they didn’t obey the rules at all. One 
of them — a male; I don’t know his name — kept going 
right to the front of the line for the slide, even though the 
rest of us were all waiting. I felt so angry at him. I made my 
hand into a fist, like this.” She held up a clenched fist and 
the rest of the family smiled at her small defiant gesture. 

“Why do you think the visitors didn’t obey the rules?” 
Mother asked. 

Lily considered, and shook her head. “I don’t know. 
They acted like . . . like ...” 

“Animals?” Jonas suggested. He laughed. 

“That’s right,” Lily said, laughing too. “Like animals.” 
Neither child knew what the word meant, exactly, but it 
was often used to describe someone uneducated or clumsy, 
someone who didn’t fit in. 


4 


5 



“Where were the visitors from?” Father asked. 

Lily frowned, trying to remember. “Our leader told us, 
when he made the welcome speech, but I can’t remember. 
I guess I wasn’t paying attention. It was from another 
community. They had to leave very early, and they had 
their midday meal on the bus.” 

Mother nodded. “Do you think it’s possible that their 
rules may be different? And so they simply didn’t know 
what your play area rules were?” 

Lily shrugged, and nodded. “I suppose.” 

“You’ve visited other communities, haven’t you?” Jonas 
asked. “My group has, often.” 

Lily nodded again. “When we were Sixes, we went and 
shared a whole school day with a group of Sixes in their 
community.” 

“How did you feel when you were there?” 

Lily frowned. “I felt strange. Because their methods 
were different. They were learning usages that my group 
hadn’t learned yet, so we felt stupid.” 

Father was listening with interest. “I’m thinking, Lily,” 
he said, “about the boy who didn’t obey the rules today. 
Do you think it’s possible that he felt strange and stupid, 
being in a new place with rules that he didn’t know 
about?” 

Lily pondered that. “Yes,” she said, finally. 

“I feel a little sorry for him,” Jonas said, “even though I 
don’t even know him. I feel sorry for anyone who is in a 
place where he feels strange and stupid.” 

“How do you feel now, Lily?” Father asked. “Still 
angry?” 

“I guess not,” Lily decided. “I guess I feel a little sorry 
for him. And sorry I made a fist.” She grinned. 


Jonas smiled back at his sister. Lily’s feelings were 
always straightforward, fairly simple, usually easy to re- 
solve. He guessed that his own had been, too, when he was 
a Seven. 

He listened politely, though not very attentively, while 
his father took his turn, describing a feeling of worry that 
he’d had that day at work: a concern about one of the 
newchildren who wasn’t doing well. Jonas’s father’s title 
was Nurturer. He and the other Nurturers were responsible 
for all the physical and emotional needs of every new-child 
during its earliest life. It was a very important job, Jonas 
knew, but it wasn’t one that interested him much. 

“What gender is it?” Lily asked. 

“Male,” Father said. “He’s a sweet little male with a 
lovely disposition. But he isn’t growing as fast as he 
should, and he doesn’t sleep soundly. We have him in the 
extra care section for supplementary nurturing, but the 
committee’s beginning to talk about releasing him.” 

“Oh, no, ” Mother murmured sympathetically. “I know 
how sad that must make you feel.” 

Jonas and Lily both nodded sympathetically as well. 
Release of newchildren was always sad, because they 
hadn’t had a chance to enjoy life within the community yet. 
And they hadn’t done anything wrong. 

There were only two occasions of release which were not 
punishment. Release of the elderly, which was a time of 
celebration for a life well and fully lived; and release of a 
newchild, which always brought a sense of what-could-we- 
have-done. This was especially troubling for the Nurturers, 
like Father, who felt they had failed somehow. But it 
happened very rarely. 

“Well,” Father said, “I’m going to keep trying. I may 


6 


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ask the committee for permission to bring him here at night, 
if you don’t mind. You know what the night-crew Nurturers 
are like. 1 think this little guy needs something extra.” 

“Of course,” Mother said, and Jonas and Lily nodded. 
They had heard Father complain about the night crew be- 
fore. It was a lesser job, night-crew nurturing, assigned to 
those who lacked the interest or skills or insight for the 
more vital jobs of the daytime hours. Most of the people on 
the night crew had not even been given spouses because 
they lacked, somehow, the essential capacity to connect to 
others, which was required for the creation of a family unit. 

“Maybe we could even keep him,” Lily suggested 
sweetly, trying to look innocent. The look was fake, Jonas 
knew; they all knew. 

“Lily,” Mother reminded her, smiling, “you know the 
rules.” 

Two children — one male, one female — to each family 
unit. It was written very clearly in the rules. 

Lily giggled. “Well,” she said, “I thought maybe just this 
once.” 

Next, Mother, who held a prominent position at the De- 
partment of Justice, talked about her feelings. Today a re- 
peat offender had been brought before her, someone who 
had broken the rules before. Someone who she hoped had 
been adequately and fairly punished, and who had been 
restored to his place: to his job, his home, his family unit. 
To see him brought before her a second time caused her 
overwhelming feelings of frustration and anger. And even 


guilt, that she hadn’t made a difference in his life. 

“I feel frightened, too, for him,” she confessed. “You 
know that there’s no third chance. The rules say that if 
there’s a third transgression, he simply has to be released.” 
Jonas shivered. He knew it happened. There was even a boy 
in his group of Elevens whose father had been released years 
before. No one ever mentioned it; the disgrace was 
unspeakable. It was hard to imagine. 

Lily stood up and went to her mother. She stroked her 
mother’s arm. 

From his place at the table, Father reached over and took 
her hand. Jonas reached for the other. 

One by one, they comforted her. Soon she smiled, 
thanked them, and murmured that she felt soothed. 

The ritual continued. “Jonas?” Father asked. “You’re 
last, tonight.” 

Jonas sighed. This evening he almost would have pre- 
ferred to keep his feelings hidden. But it was, of course, 
against the rules. 

“I’m feeling apprehensive,” he confessed, glad that the 
appropriate descriptive word had finally come to him. 

“Why is that, son?” His father looked concerned. 

“I know there’s really nothing to worry about,” Jonas 
explained, “and that every adult has been through it. I know 
you have, Father, and you too, Mother. But it’s the 
Ceremony that I’m apprehensive about. It’s almost De- 
cember.” 

Lily looked up, her eyes wide. “The Ceremony of 
Twelve,” she whispered in an awed voice. Even the small- 
est children — Lily’s age and younger — knew that it lay 
in the future for each of them. 


9 



“I’m glad you told us of your feelings,” Father said. 

“Lily,” Mother said, beckoning to the little girl, “Go on 
now and get into your nightclothes. Father and I are going 
to stay here and talk to Jonas for a while.” 

Lily sighed, but obediently she got down from her chair. 
“Privately?” she asked. 

Mother nodded. “Yes,” she said, “this talk will be a 
private one with Jonas.” 


10 


2 


Jonas watched as his father poured a fresh cup of coffee. He 
waited. 

“You know,” his father finally said, “every December 
was exciting to me when I was young. And it has been for 
you and Lily, too, I’m sure. Each December brings such 
changes.” 

Jonas nodded. He could remember the Decembers back to 
when he had become, well, probably a Four. The earlier ones 
were lost to him. But he observed them each year, and he 
remembered Lily’s earliest Decembers. He remembered 
when his family received Lily, the day she was named, the 
day that she had become a One. 

The Ceremony for the Ones was always noisy and fun. 
Each December, all the newchildren born in the previous 
year turned One. One at a time — there were always fifty in 
each year’s group, if none had been released — they had 
been brought to the stage by the Nurturers who had cared for 
them since birth. Some were already walking, wobbly on 
their unsteady legs; others were no more than a few days old, 
wrapped in blankets, held by their Nurturers. 

“I enjoy the Naming,” Jonas said. 

His mother agreed, smiling. “The year we got Lily, we 


11 



knew, of course, that we’d receive our female, because 
we’d made our application and been approved. But I’d been 
wondering and wondering what her name would be. 

“I could have sneaked a look at the list prior to the cer- 
emony,” Father confided. “The committee always makes 
the list in advance, and it’s right there in the office at the 
Nurturing Center. 

“As a matter of fact,” he went on, “I feel a little guilty 
about this. But I did go in this afternoon and looked to see 
if this year’s Naming list had been made yet. It was right 
there in the office, and I looked up number Thirty-six — 
that’s the little guy I’ve been concerned about — because it 
occurred to me that it might enhance his nurturing if I could 
call him by a name. Just privately, of course, when no one 
else is around.” 

“Did you find it?” Jonas asked. He was fascinated. It 
didn’t seem a terribly important rule, but the fact that his 
father had broken a rule at all awed him. He glanced at his 
mother, the one responsible for adherence to the rules, and 
was relieved that she was smiling. 

His father nodded. “His name — if he makes it to the 
Naming without being released, of course — is to be Ga- 
briel. So I whisper that to him when I feed him every four 
hours, and during exercise and playtime. If no one can hear 
me. 

“I call him Gabe, actually,” he said, and grinned. 

“Gabe.” Jonas tried it out. A good name, he decided. 

Though Jonas had only become a Five the year that they 
acquired Lily and learned her name, he remembered the 
excitement, the conversations at home, wondering about 
her: how she would look, who she would be, how 


she would fit into their established family unit. He re- 
membered climbing the steps to the stage with his parents, 
his father by his side that year instead of with the Nur- 
turers, since it was the year that he would be given a new- 
child of his own. 

He remembered his mother taking the newchild, his 
sister, into her arms, while the document was read to the 
assembled family units. “Newchild Twenty-three,” the 
Namer had read. “Lily.” 

He remembered his father’s look of delight, and that his 
father had whispered, “She’s one of my favorites. I was 
hoping for her to be the one.” The crowd had clapped, and 
Jonas had grinned. He liked his sister’s name. Lily, barely 
awake, had waved her small fist. Then they had stepped 
down to make room for the next family unit. 

“When I was an Eleven,” his father said now, “as you 
are, Jonas, I was very impatient, waiting for the Ceremony 
of Twelve. It’s a long two days. I remember that I enjoyed 
the Ones, as I always do, but that I didn’t pay much at- 
tention to the other ceremonies, except for my sister’s. She 
became a Nine that year, and got her bicycle. I’d been 
teaching her to ride mine, even though technically I wasn’t 
supposed to.” 

Jonas laughed. It was one of the few rules that was not 
taken very seriously and was almost always broken. The 
children all received their bicycles at Nine; they were not 
allowed to ride bicycles before then. But almost always, the 
older brothers and sisters had secretly taught the younger 
ones. Jonas had been thinking already about teaching Lily. 

There was talk about changing the rule and giving the 
bicycles at an earlier age. A committee was studying 


12 


13 



the idea. When something went to a committee for study, 
the people always joked about it. They said that the com- 
mittee members would become Elders by the time the rule 
change was made. 

Rules were very hard to change. Sometimes, if it was a 
very important rule — unlike the one governing the age for 
bicycles — it would have to go, eventually, to The Re- 
ceiver for a decision. The Receiver was the most important 
Elder. Jonas had never even seen him, that he knew of; 
someone in a position of such importance lived and worked 
alone. But the committee would never bother The Receiver 
with a question about bicycles; they would simply fret and 
argue about it themselves for years, until the citizens forgot 
that it had ever gone to them for study. 

His father continued. “So I watched and cheered when 
my sister, Katya, became a Nine and removed her hair 
ribbons and got her bicycle,” Father went on. “Then I didn’t 
pay much attention to the Tens and Elevens. And finally, at 
the end of the second day, which seemed to go on forever, it 
was my turn. It was the Ceremony of Twelve.” 

Jonas shivered. He pictured his father, who must have 
been a shy and quiet boy, for he was a shy and quiet man, 
seated with his group, waiting to be called to the stage. 

The Ceremony of Twelve was the last of the Ceremonies. 
The most important. 

“I remember how proud my parents looked — and my 
sister, too; even though she wanted to be out riding the bi- 
cycle publicly, she stopped fidgeting and was very still and 
attentive when my turn came. 

“But to be honest, Jonas,” his father said, “for me there 


was not the element of suspense that there is with your 
Ceremony. Because I was already fairly certain of what my 
Assignment was to be.” 

Jonas was surprised. There was no way, really, to know 
in advance. It was a secret selection, made by the leaders of 
the community, the Committee of Elders, who took the 
responsibility so seriously that there were never even any 
jokes made about Assignments. 

His mother seemed surprised, too. “How could you have 
known?” she asked. 

His father smiled his gentle smile. “Well, it was clear to 
me — and my parents later confessed that it had been ob- 
vious to them, too — what my aptitude was. I had always 
loved the newchildren more than anything. When my 
friends in my age group were holding bicycle races, or 
building toy vehicles or bridges with their construction 
sets, or — “ 

“All the things I do with my friends,” Jonas pointed out, 
and his mother nodded in agreement. 

“I always participated, of course, because as children we 
must experience all of those things. And I studied hard in 
school, as you do, Jonas. But again and again, during free 
time, I found myself drawn to the newchildren. I spent al- 
most all of my volunteer hours helping in the Nurturing 
Center. Of course the Elders knew that, from their obser- 
vation.” 

Jonas nodded. During the past year he had been aware of 
the increasing level of observation. In school, at recreation 
time, and during volunteer hours, he had noticed the Elders 
watching him and the other Elevens. He had seen them 
taking notes. He knew, too, that the Elders were 


14 


15 



meeting for long hours with all of the instructors that he 
and the other Elevens had had during their years of school. 

“So I expected it, and I was pleased, but not at all sur- 
prised, when my Assignment was announced as Nurturer,” 
Father explained. 

“Did everyone applaud, even though they weren’t sur- 
prised?” Jonas asked. 

“Oh, of course. They were happy for me, that my As- 
signment was what I wanted most. I felt very fortunate.” 
His father smiled. 

“Were any of the Elevens disappointed, your year?” 
Jonas asked. Unlike his father, he had no idea what his 
Assignment would be. But he knew that some would dis- 
appoint him. Though he respected his father’s work, Nur- 
turer would not be his wish. And he didn’t envy Laborers 
at all. 

His father thought. “No, I don’t think so. Of course the 
Elders are so careful in their observations and selections.” 

“1 think it’s probably the most important job in our 
community,” his mother commented. 

“My friend Yoshiko was surprised by her selection as 
Doctor,” Father said, “but she was thrilled. And let’s see, 
there was Andrei — I remember that when we were boys 
he never wanted to do physical things. He spent all the 
recreation time he could with his construction set, and his 
volunteer hours were always on building sites. The Elders 
knew that, of course. Andrei was given the Assignment of 
Engineer and he was delighted.” 

“Andrei later designed the bridge that crosses the river 
to the west of town,” Jonas’s mother said. “It wasn’t there 
when we were children.” 


“There are very rarely disappointments, Jonas. I don’t 
think you need to worry about that,” his father reassured 
him. “And if there are, you know there’s an appeal proc- 
ess.” But they all laughed at that — an appeal went to a 
committee for study. 

“I worry a little about Asher’s Assignment,” Jonas con- 
fessed. “Asher’s such fun. But he doesn’t really have any 
serious interests. He makes a game out of everything.” 

His father chuckled. “You know,” he said, “I re- 
member when Asher was a newchild at the Nurturing 
Center, before he was named. He never cried. He giggled 
and laughed at everything. All of us on the staff enjoyed 
nurturing Asher.” 

“The Elders know Asher,” his mother said. “They’ll 
find exactly the right Assignment for him. I don’t think 
you need to worry about him. But, Jonas, let me warn you 
about something that may not have occurred to you. I 
know I didn’t think about it until after my Ceremony of 
Twelve.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Well, it’s the last of the Ceremonies, as you know. 
After Twelve, age isn’t important. Most of us even lose 
track of how old we are as time passes, though the infor- 
mation is in the Hall of Open Records, and we could go 
and look it up if we wanted to. What’s important is the 
preparation for adult life, and the training you’ll receive in 
your Assignment.” 

“I know that,” Jonas said. “Everyone knows that.” 

“But it means,” his mother went on, “that you’ll move 
into a new group. And each of your friends will. You’ll no 
longer be spending your time with your group of Elevens. 
After the Ceremony of Twelve, you’ll be with your Assign- 


16 


17 



ment group, with those in training. No more volunteer 
hours. No more recreation hours. So your friends will no 
longer be as close.” 

Jonas shook his head. “Asher and I will always be 
friends,” he said firmly. “And there will still be school.” 

“That’s true,” his father agreed. “But what your mother 
said is true as well. There will be changes.” 

“Good changes, though,” his mother pointed out. “After 
my Ceremony of Twelve, 1 missed my childhood 
recreation. But when I entered my training for Law and 
Justice, 1 found myself with people who shared my inter- 
ests. I made friends on a new level, friends of all ages.” 

“Did you still play at all, after Twelve?” Jonas asked. 

“Occasionally,” his mother replied. “But it didn’t seem 
as important to me.” 

“1 did,” his father said, laughing. “I still do. Every day, 
at the Nurturing Center, I play bounce-on-the-knee, and 
peek-a-boo, and hug-the-teddy.” He reached over and 
stroked Jonas’s neatly trimmed hair. “Fun doesn’t end 
when you become Twelve.” 

Lily appeared, wearing her nightclothes, in the door- 
way. She gave an impatient sigh. “This is certainly a very 
long private conversation,” she said. “And there are certain 
people waiting for their comfort object.” 

“Lily,” her mother said fondly, “you’re very close to 
being an Eight, and when you’re an Eight, your comfort 
object will be taken away. It will be recycled to the 
younger children. You should be starting to go off to sleep 
without it.” 

But her father had already gone to the shelf and taken 
down the stuffed elephant which was kept there. Many of 


the comfort objects, like Lily’s, were soft, stuffed, imagi- 
nary creatures. Jonas’s had been called a bear. 

“Here you are. Lily-billy,” he said. “I’ll come help you 
remove your hair ribbons.” 

Jonas and his mother rolled their eyes, yet they watched 
affectionately as Lily and her father headed to her sleeping- 
room with the stuffed elephant that had been given to her 
as her comfort object when she was born. His mother 
moved to her big desk and opened her briefcase; her work 
never seemed to end, even when she was at home in the 
evening. Jonas went to his own desk and began to sort 
through his school papers for the evening’s assignment. But 
his mind was still on December and the coming Ceremony. 

Though he had been reassured by the talk with his par- 
ents, he hadn’t the slightest idea what Assignment the 
Elders would be selecting for his future, or how he might 
feel about it when the day came. 


19 



3 


“Oh, look!” Lily squealed in delight. “Isn’t he cute? 
Look how tiny he is! And he has funny eyes like yours, 
Jonas!” Jonas glared at her. He didn’t like it that she had 
mentioned his eyes. He waited for his father to chastise 
Lily. But Father was busy unstrapping the carrying basket 
from the back of his bicycle. Jonas walked over to look. 

It was the first thing Jonas noticed as he looked at the 
newchild peering up curiously from the basket. The pale 
eyes. 

Almost every citizen in the community had dark eyes. 
His parents did, and Lily did, and so did all of his group 
members and friends. But there were a few exceptions: 
Jonas himself, and a female Five who he had noticed had 
the different, lighter eyes. No one mentioned such things; it 
was not a rule, but was considered rude to call attention to 
things that were unsettling or different about individuals. 
Lily, he decided, would have to learn that soon, or she 
would be called in for chastisement because of her in- 
sensitive chatter. 

Father put his bike into its port. Then he picked up the 
basket and carried it into the house. Lily followed be- 


hind, but she glanced back over her shoulder at Jonas and 
teased, “Maybe he had the same Birthmother as you.” 

Jonas shrugged. He followed them inside. But he had 
been startled by the newchild’ s eyes. Mirrors were rare in 
the community; they weren’t forbidden, but there was no 
real need of them, and Jonas had simply never bothered to 
look at himself very often even when he found himself in a 
location where a mirror existed. Now, seeing the newchild 
and its expression, he was reminded that the light eyes 
were not only a rarity but gave the one who had them a 
certain look — what was it? Depth, he decided; as if one 
were looking into the clear water of the river, down to the 
bottom, where things might lurk which hadn’t been dis- 
covered yet. He felt self-conscious, realizing that he, too, 
had that look. 

He went to his desk, pretending not to be interested in 
the newchild. On the other side of the room, Mother and 
Lily were bending over to watch as Father unwrapped its 
blanket. 

“What’s his comfort object called?” Lily asked, picking 
up the stuffed creature which had been placed beside the 
newchild in his basket. 

Father glanced at it. “Hippo,” he said. 

Lily giggled at the strange word. “Hippo,” she repeated, 
and put the comfort object down again. She peered at the 
unwrapped newchild, who waved his arms. 

“I think newchildren are so cute,” Lily sighed. “I hope I 
get assigned to be a Birthmother.” 

“Lily!” Mother spoke very sharply. “Don’t say that. 
There’s very little honor in that Assignment.” 

“But I was talking to Natasha. You know the Ten who 


20 


21 



lives around the corner? She does some of her volunteer 
hours at the Birthing Center. And she told me that the 
Birthmothers get wonderful food, and they have very gen- 
tle exercise periods, and most of the time they just play 
games and amuse themselves while they’re waiting. I think 
I’d like that,” Lily said petulantly. 

“Three years,” Mother told her firmly. “Three births, 
and that’s all. After that they are Laborers for the rest of 
their adult lives, until the day that they enter the House of 
the Old. Is that what you want, Lily? Three lazy years, and 
then hard physical labor until you are old?” 

“Well, no, I guess not,” Lily acknowledged reluctantly. 

Father turned the newchild onto his tummy in the bas- 
ket. He sat beside it and rubbed its small back with a 
rhythmic motion. “Anyway, Lily-billy,” he said affection- 
ately, “the Birthmothers never even get to see newchildren. 
If you enjoy the little ones so much, you should hope for an 
Assignment as Nurturer.” 

“When you’re an Eight and start your volunteer hours, 
you can try some at the Nurturing Center,” Mother sug- 
gested. 

“Yes, I think I will,” Lily said. She knelt beside the bas- 
ket. “What did you say his name is? Gabriel? Hello, Ga- 
briel,” she said in a singsong voice. Then she giggled. 
“Ooops,” she whispered. “I think he’s asleep. I guess I’d 
better be quiet.” 

Jonas turned to the school assignments on his desk. 
Some chance of that, he thought. Lily was never quiet. 
Probably she should hope for an Assignment as Speaker, so 
that she could sit in the office with the microphone all day, 
making announcements. He laughed silently to him-self, 
picturing his sister droning on in the self-important 


voice that all the Speakers seemed to develop, saying 
things like, ATTENTION. THIS IS A REMINDER TO 
FEMALES UNDER NINE THAT HAIR RIBBONS ARE 
TO BE NEATLY TIED AT ALL TIMES. 

He turned toward Lily and noticed to his satisfaction 
that her ribbons were, as usual, undone and dangling. 
There would be an announcement like that quite soon, he 
felt certain, and it would be directed mainly at Lily, though 
her name, of course, would not be mentioned. Everyone 
would know. 

Everyone had known, he remembered with humiliation, 
that the announcement ATTENTION. THIS IS A RE- 
MINDER TO MALE ELEVENS THAT OBJECTS ARE 
NOT TO BE REMOVED FROM THE RECREATION 
AREA AND THAT SNACKS ARE TO BE EATEN, 
NOT HOARDED had been specifically directed at him, 
the day last month that he had taken an apple home. No 
one had mentioned it, not even his parents, because the 
public announcement had been sufficient to produce the 
appropriate remorse. He had, of course, disposed of the 
apple and made his apology to the Recreation Director the 
next morning, before school. 

Jonas thought again about that incident. He was still 
bewildered by it. Not by the announcement or the neces- 
sary apology; those were standard procedures, and he had 
deserved them — but by the incident itself. He probably 
should have brought up his feeling of bewilderment that 
very evening when the family unit had shared their feel- 
ings of the day. But he had not been able to sort out and 
put words to the source of his confusion, so he had let it 
pass. 

It had happened during the recreation period, when he 
had been playing with Asher. Jonas had casually picked 


22 


23 



up an apple from the basket where the snacks were kept, 
and had thrown it to his friend. Asher had thrown it back, 
and they had begun a simple game of catch. 

There had been nothing special about it; it was an activ- 
ity that he had performed countless times: throw, catch; 
throw, catch. It was effortless for Jonas, and even boring, 
though Asher enjoyed it, and playing catch was a required 
activity for Asher because it would improve his hand-eye 
coordination, which was not up to standards. 

But suddenly Jonas had noticed, following the path of 
the apple through the air with his eyes, that the piece of 
fruit had — well, this was the part that he couldn’t ade- 
quately understand — the apple had changed. Just for an 
instant. It had changed in mid-air, he remembered. Then it 
was in his hand, and he looked at it carefully, but it was the 
same apple. Unchanged. The same size and shape: a perfect 
sphere. The same nondescript shade, about the same shade 
as his own tunic. 

There was absolutely nothing remarkable about that 
apple. He had tossed it back and forth between his hands a 
few times, then thrown it again to Asher. And again — in 
the air, for an instant only — it had changed. 

It had happened four times. Jonas had blinked, looked 
around, and then tested his eyesight, squinting at the small 
print on the identification badge attached to his tunic. He 
read his name quite clearly. He could also clearly see Asher 
at the other end of the throwing area. And he had had no 
problem catching the apple. 

Jonas had been completely mystified. 

“Ash?” he had called. “Does anything seem strange to 
you? About the apple?” 

“Yes,” Asher called back, laughing. “It jumps out of 


my hand onto the ground!” Asher had just dropped it once 
again. 

So Jonas laughed too, and with his laughter tried to ig- 
nore his uneasy conviction that something had happened. 
But he had taken the apple home, against the recreation 
area rules. That evening, before his parents and Lily arrived 
at the dwelling, he had held it in his hands and looked at it 
carefully. It was slightly bruised now, because Asher had 
dropped it several times. But there was nothing at all 
unusual about the apple. 

He had held a magnifying glass to it. He had tossed it 
several times across the room, watching, and then rolled it 
around and around on his desktop, waiting for the thing to 
happen again. 

But it hadn’t. The only thing that happened was the 
announcement later that evening over the speaker, the an- 
nouncement that had singled him out without using his 
name, that had caused both of his parents to glance mean- 
ingfully at his desk where the apple still lay. 

Now, sitting at his desk, staring at his schoolwork as his 
family hovered over the newchild in its basket, he shook 
his head, trying to forget the odd incident. He forced him- 
self to arrange his papers and try to study a little before the 
evening meal. The newchild, Gabriel, stirred and whim- 
pered, and Father spoke softly to Lily, explaining the feed- 
ing procedure as he opened the container that held the 
formula and equipment. 

The evening proceeded as all evenings did in the family 
unit, in the dwelling, in the community: quiet, reflective, a 
time for renewal and preparation for the day to come. It 
was different only in the addition to it of the newchild with 
his pale, solemn, knowing eyes. 


24 


25 



4 


Jonas rode at a leisurely pace, glancing at the bikeports 
beside the buildings to see if he could spot Asher’s. He 
didn’t often do his volunteer hours with his friend because 
Asher frequently fooled around and made serious work a 
little difficult. But now, with Twelve coming so soon and 
the volunteer hours ending, it didn’t seem to matter. 

The freedom to choose where to spend those hours had 
always seemed a wonderful luxury to Jonas; other hours of 
the day were so carefully regulated. 

He remembered when he had become an Eight, as Lily 
would do shortly, and had been faced with that freedom of 
choice. The Eights always set out on their first volunteer 
hour a little nervously, giggling and staying in groups of 
friends. They almost invariably did their hours on Recre- 
ation Duty first, helping with the younger ones in a place 
where they still felt comfortable. But with guidance, as 
they developed self-confidence and maturity, they moved 
on to other jobs, gravitating toward those that would suit 
their own interests and skills. 

A male Eleven named Benjamin had done his entire 
nearly-Four years in the Rehabilitation Center, working 
with citizens who had been injured. It was rumored that he 
was as skilled now as the Rehabilitation Directors 


themselves, and that he had even developed some ma- 
chines and methods to hasten rehabilitation. There was no 
doubt that Benjamin would receive his Assignment to that 
field and would probably be permitted to bypass most of 
the training. 

Jonas was impressed by the things Benjamin had 
achieved. He knew him, of course, since they had always 
been groupmates, but they had never talked about the boy’s 
accomplishments because such a conversation would have 
been awkward for Benjamin. There was never any 
comfortable way to mention or discuss one’s successes 
without breaking the rule against bragging, even if one 
didn’t mean to. It was a minor rule, rather like rudeness, 
punishable only by gentle chastisement. But still. Better to 
steer clear of an occasion governed by a rule which would 
be so easy to break. 

The area of dwellings behind him, Jonas rode past the 
community structures, hoping to spot Asher’s bicycle 
parked beside one of the small factories or office buildings. 
He passed the Childcare Center where Lily stayed after 
school, and the play areas surrounding it. He rode through 
the Central Plaza and the large Auditorium where public 
meetings were held. 

Jonas slowed and looked at the nametags on the bicycles 
lined up outside the Nurturing Center. Then he checked 
those outside Food Distribution; it was always fun to help 
with the deliveries, and he hoped he would find his friend 
there so that they could go together on the daily rounds, 
carrying the cartons of supplies into the dwellings of the 
community. But he finally found Asher’s bicycle — 
leaning, as usual, instead of upright in its port, as it should 
have been — at the House of the Old. 


26 


27 



There was only one other child’s bicycle there, that of a 
female Eleven named Fiona. Jonas liked Fiona. She was a 
good student, quiet and polite, but she had a sense of fun as 
well, and it didn’t surprise him that she was working with 
Asher today. He parked his bicycle neatly in the port beside 
theirs and entered the building. 

“Hello, Jonas,” the attendant at the front desk said. She 
handed him the sign-up sheet and stamped her own official 
seal beside his signature. All of his volunteer hours would 
be carefully tabulated at the Hall of Open Records. Once, 
long ago, it was whispered among the children, an Eleven 
had arrived at the Ceremony of Twelve only to hear a public 
announcement that he had not completed the required 
number of volunteer hours and would not, there-fore, be 
given his Assignment. He had been permitted an additional 
month in which to complete the hours, and then given his 
Assignment privately, with no applause, no celebration: a 
disgrace that had clouded his entire future. 

“It’s good to have some volunteers here today,” the at- 
tendant told him. “We celebrated a release this morning, 
and that always throws the schedule off a little, so things 
get backed up.” She looked at a printed sheet. “Fet’s see. 
Asher and Fiona are helping in the bathing room. Why 
don’t you join them there? You know where it is, don’t 
you?” 

Jonas nodded, thanked her, and walked down the long 
hallway. He glanced into the rooms on either side. The Old 
were sitting quietly, some visiting and talking with one 
another, others doing handwork and simple crafts. A few 
were asleep. Each room was comfortably furnished, the 
floors covered with thick carpeting. It was a serene and 


slow-paced place, unlike the busy centers of manufacture 
and distribution where the daily work of the community 
occurred. 

Jonas was glad that he had, over the years, chosen to do 
his hours in a variety of places so that he could experience 
the differences. He realized, though, that not focusing on 
one area meant he was left with not the slightest idea — 
not even a guess — of what his Assignment would be. 

He laughed softly. Thinking about the Ceremony again, 
Jonas? He teased himself. But he suspected that with the 
date so near, probably all of his friends were, too. 

He passed a Caretaker walking slowly with one of the 
Old in the hall. “Hello, Jonas,” the young uniformed man 
said, smiling pleasantly. The woman beside him, whose 
arm he held, was hunched over as she shuffled along in her 
soft slippers. She looked toward Jonas and smiled, but her 
dark eyes were clouded and blank. He realized she was 
blind. 

He entered the bathing room with its warm moist air and 
scent of cleansing lotions. He removed his tunic, hung it 
carefully on a wall hook, and put on the volunteer’s smock 
that was folded on a shelf. 

“Hi, Jonas!” Asher called from the corner where he was 
kneeling beside a tub. Jonas saw Fiona nearby, at a differ- 
ent tub. She looked up and smiled at him, but she was busy, 
gently washing a man who lay in the warm water. 

Jonas greeted them and the caretaking attendants at 
work nearby. Then he went to the row of padded lounging 
chairs where others of the Old were waiting. He had 
worked here before; he knew what to do. 

“Your turn, Farissa,” he said, reading the nametag on 


28 


29 



the woman’s robe. “I’ll just start the water and then help 
you up.” He pressed the button on a nearby empty tub and 
watched as the warm water flowed in through the many 
small openings on the sides. The tub would be filled in a 
minute and the water flow would stop automatically. 

He helped the woman from the chair, led her to the tub, 
removed her robe, and steadied her with his hand on her 
arm as she stepped in and lowered herself. She leaned back 
and sighed with pleasure, her head on a soft cushioned 
headrest. 

“Comfortable?” he asked, and she nodded, her eyes 
closed. Jonas squeezed cleansing lotion onto the clean 
sponge at the edge of the tub and began to wash her frail 
body. 

Last night he had watched as his father bathed the new- 
child. This was much the same: the fragile skin, the sooth- 
ing water, the gentle motion of his hand, slippery with 
soap. The relaxed, peaceful smile on the woman’s face re- 
minded him of Gabriel being bathed. 

And the nakedness, too. It was against the rules for 
children or adults to look at another’s nakedness; but the 
rule did not apply to newchildren or the Old. Jonas was 
glad. It was a nuisance to keep oneself covered while 
changing for games, and the required apology if one had 
by mistake glimpsed another’s body was always awkward. 
He couldn’t see why it was necessary. He liked the feeling 
of safety here in this warm and quiet room; he liked the 
expression of trust on the woman’s face as she lay in the 
water unprotected, exposed, and free. 

From the corner of his eye he could see his friend Fiona 


help the old man from the tub and tenderly pat his thin, 
naked body dry with an absorbent cloth. She helped him 
into his robe. 

Jonas thought Larissa had drifted into sleep, as the Old 
often did, and he was careful to keep his motions steady 
and gentle so he wouldn’t wake her. He was surprised 
when she spoke, her eyes still closed. 

“This morning we celebrated the release of Roberto,” 
she told him. “It was wonderful.” 

“I knew Roberto!” Jonas said. “I helped with his feed- 
ing the last time I was here, just a few weeks ago. He was a 
very interesting man.” 

Larissa opened her eyes happily. “They told his whole 
life before they released him,” she said. “They always do. 
But to be honest,” she whispered with a mischievous look, 
“some of the tellings are a little boring. I’ve even seen 
some of the Old fall asleep during tellings — when they 
released Edna recently. Did you know Edna?” 

Jonas shook his head. He couldn’t recall anyone named 
Edna. 

“Well, they tried to make her life sound meaningful. 
And of course,” she added primly, “all lives are meaning- 
ful, I don’t mean that they aren’t. But Edna. My goodness. 
She was a Birthmother, and then she worked in Food 
Production for years, until she came here. She never even 
had a family unit.” 

Larissa lifted her head and looked around to make sure 
no one else was listening. Then she confided, “I don’t 
think Edna was very smart.” 

Jonas laughed. He rinsed her left arm, laid it back into 
the water, and began to wash her feet. She murmured 


30 


31 



with pleasure as he massaged her feet with the sponge. 

“But Roberto’s life was wonderful,” Larissa went on, 
after a moment. “He had been an Instructor of Elevens — 
you know how important that is — and he’d been on the 
Planning Committee. And — goodness, I don’t know how 
he found the time — he also raised two very successful 
children, and he was also the one who did the landscaping 
design for the Central Plaza. He didn’t do the actual labor, 
of course.” 

“Now your back. Lean forward and I’ll help you sit up.” 
Jonas put his arm around her and supported her as she sat. 
He squeezed the sponge against her back and began to rub 
her sharp-boned shoulders. “Tell me about the celebration.” 

“Well, there was the telling of his life. That is always 
first. Then the toast. We all raised our glasses and cheered. 
We chanted the anthem. He made a lovely good-bye 
speech. And several of us made little speeches wishing him 
well. I didn’t, though. I’ve never been fond of public 
speaking. 

“He was thrilled. You should have seen the look on his 
face when they let him go.” 

Jonas slowed the strokes of his hand on her back 
thoughtfully. “Larissa,” he asked, “what happens when they 
make the actual release? Where exactly did Roberto go?” 

She lifted her bare wet shoulders in a small shrug. “I 
don’t know. I don’t think anybody does, except the com- 
mittee. He just bowed to all of us and then walked, like 
they all do, through the special door in the Releasing 
Room. But you should have seen his look. Pure happiness, 
I’d call it.” 


Jonas grinned. “I wish I’d been there to see it.” 

Larissa frowned. “I don’t know why they don’t let chil- 
dren come. Not enough room, I guess. They should en- 
large the Releasing Room.” 

“We’ll have to suggest that to the committee. Maybe 
they’d study it,” Jonas said slyly, and Larissa chortled with 
laughter. 

“Right!” she hooted, and Jonas helped her from the tub. 


32 


33 



5 


Usually, at the morning ritual when the family members 
told their dreams, Jonas didn’t contribute much. He rarely 
dreamed. Sometimes he awoke with a feeling of fragments 
afloat in his sleep, but he couldn’t seem to grasp them and 
put them together into something worthy of telling at the 
ritual. 

But this morning was different. He had dreamed very 
vividly the night before. 

His mind wandered while Lily, as usual, recounted a 
lengthy dream, this one a frightening one in which she had, 
against the rules, been riding her mother’s bicycle and been 
caught by the Security Guards. 

They all listened carefully and discussed with Lily the 
warning that the dream had given. 

“Thank you for your dream, Lily.” Jonas said the stan- 
dard phrase automatically, and tried to pay better attention 
while his mother told of a dream fragment, a disquieting 
scene where she had been chastised for a rule infraction she 
didn’t understand. Together they agreed that it probably 
resulted from her feelings when she had reluctantly dealt 
punishment to the citizen who had broken the major rules a 
second time. 


Father said that he had had no dreams. 

“Gabe?” Father asked, looking down at the basket where 
the newchild lay gurgling after his feeding, ready to be 
taken back to the Nurturing Center for the day. 

They all laughed. Dream-telling began with Threes. If 
newchildren dreamed, no one knew. 

“Jonas?” Mother asked. They always asked, though they 
knew how rarely Jonas had a dream to tell. 

“I did dream last night,” Jonas told them. He shifted in 
his chair, frowning. 

“Good,” Father said. “Tell us.” 

“The details aren’t clear, really,” Jonas explained, trying 
to recreate the odd dream in his mind. “I think I was in the 
bathing room at the House of the Old.” 

“That’s where you were yesterday,” Father pointed out. 

Jonas nodded. “But it wasn’t really the same. There was 
a tub, in the dream. But only one. And the real bathing 
room has rows and rows of them. But the room in the 
dream was warm and damp. And 1 had taken off my tunic, 
but hadn’t put on the smock, so my chest was bare. I was 
perspiring, because it was so warm. And Fiona was there, 
the way she was yesterday.” 

“Asher, too?” Mother asked. 

Jonas shook his head. “No. It was only me and Fiona, 
alone in the room, standing beside the tub. She was laugh- 
ing. But I wasn’t. I was almost a little angry at her, in the 
dream, because she wasn’t taking me seriously.” 

“Seriously about what?” Lily asked. 

Jonas looked at his plate. For some reason that he didn’t 
understand, he felt slightly embarrassed. “I think I 


34 


35 



was trying to convince her that she should get into the tub 
of water.” 

He paused. He knew he had to tell it all, that it was not 
only all right but necessary to tell all of a dream. So he 
forced himself to relate the part that made him uneasy. 

“I wanted her to take off her clothes and get into the 
tub,” he explained quickly. “I wanted to bathe her. I had the 
sponge in my hand. But she wouldn’t. She kept laughing 
and saying no.” 

He looked up at his parents. “That’s all,” he said. “Can 
you describe the strongest feeling in your dream, son?” 
Father asked. 

Jonas thought about it. The details were murky and 
vague. But the feelings were clear, and flooded him again 
now as he thought. “The wanting, ” he said. “I knew that 
she wouldn’t. And I think I knew that she shouldn ’t. But I 
wanted it so terribly. I could feel the wanting all through 
me.” 

“Thank you for your dream, Jonas,” Mother said after a 
moment. She glanced at Father. 

“Lily,” Father said, “it’s time to leave for school. Would 
you walk beside me this morning and keep an eye on the 
newchild’s basket? We want to be certain he doesn’t wiggle 
himself loose.” 

Jonas began to rise to collect his schoolbooks. He 
thought it surprising that they hadn’t talked about his dream 
at length before the thank you. Perhaps they found it as 
confusing as he had. 

“Wait, Jonas,” Mother said gently. “I’ll write an apology 
to your instructor so that you won’t have to speak one for 
being late.” 


He sank back down into his chair, puzzled. He waved to 
Father and Lily as they left the dwelling, carrying Gabe in 
his basket. He watched while Mother tidied the remains of 
the morning meal and placed the tray by the front door for 
the Collection Crew. 

Finally she sat down beside him at the table. “Jonas,” 
she said with a smile, “the feeling you described as the 
wanting? It was your first Stirrings. Father and I have been 
expecting it to happen to you. It happens to everyone. It 
happened to Father when he was your age. And it hap- 
pened to me. It will happen someday to Lily. 

“And very often,” Mother added, “it begins with a 
dream.” 

Stirrings. He had heard the word before. He remem- 
bered that there was a reference to the Stirrings in the 
Book of Rules, though he didn’t remember what it said. 
And now and then the Speaker mentioned it. ATTENTION. 

A REMINDER THAT STIRRINGS MUST BE REPORTED IN 
ORDER FOR TREATMENT TO TAKE PLACE. 

He had always ignored that announcement because he 
didn’t understand it and it had never seemed to apply to 
him in any way. He ignored, as most citizens did, many of 
the commands and reminders read by the Speaker. 

“Do I have to report it?” he asked his mother. 

She laughed. “You did, in the dream-telling. That’s 
enough.” 

“But what about the treatment? The Speaker says that 
treatment must take place.” Jonas felt miserable. Just when 
the Ceremony was about to happen, his Ceremony of 
Twelve, would he have to go away someplace for treat- 
ment? Just because of a stupid dream? 


36 


37 



But his mother laughed again in a reassuring, affection- 
ate way. “No, no,” she said. “It’s just the pills. You’re 
ready for the pills, that’s all. That’s the treatment for Stir- 
rings.” 

Jonas brightened. He knew about the pills. His parents 
both took them each morning. And some of his friends did, 
he knew. Once he had been heading off to school with 
Asher, both of them on their bikes, when Asher’s father 
had called from their dwelling doorway, “You forgot your 
pill, Asher!” Asher had groaned good-naturedly, turned his 
bike, and ridden back while Jonas waited. 

It was the sort of thing one didn’t ask a friend about 
because it might have fallen into that uncomfortable cate- 
gory of ‘being different.’ Asher took a pill each morning; 
Jonas did not. Always better, less rude, to talk about things 
that were the same. 

Now he swallowed the small pill that his mother handed 
him. 

“That’s all?” he asked. 

“That’s all,” she replied, returning the bottle to the 
cupboard. “But you mustn’t forget. I’ll remind you for the 
first weeks, but then you must do it on your own. If you 
forget, the Stirrings will come back. The dreams of 
Stirrings will come back. Sometimes the dosage must be 
adjusted.” 

“Asher takes them,” Jonas confided. 

His mother nodded, unsurprised. “Many of your 
groupmates probably do. The males, at least. And they all 
will, soon. Females too.” 

“How long will I have to take them?” 

“Until you enter the House of the Old,” she explained. 


"All of your adult life. But it becomes routine; after a 
while you won't even pay much attention to it." 

She looked at her watch. "If you leave right now, you 
won't even be late for school. Hurry along. 

"And thank you again, Jonas," she added, as he went to 
the door, "for your dream." 

Pedaling rapidly down the path, Jonas felt oddly proud to 
have joined those who took the pills. For a moment, 
though, he remembered the dream again. The dream had 
felt pleasurable. Though the feelings were confused, he 
thought that he had liked the feelings that his mother had 
called Stirrings. He remembered that upon waking, he had 
wanted to feel the Stirrings again. 

Then, in the same way that his own dwelling slipped 
away behind him as he rounded a corner on his bicycle, the 
dream slipped away from his thoughts. Very briefly, a little 
guiltily, he tried to grasp it back. But the feelings had 
disappeared. The Stirrings were gone. 


38 


39 



6 


"Lily, please hold still," Mother said again. 

Lily, standing in front of her, fidgeted impatiently. "I 
can tie them myself," she complained. "I always have." 

"I know that," Mother replied, straightening the hair 
ribbons on the little girl's braids. "But I also know that they 
constantly come loose and more often than not, they're 
dangling down your back by afternoon. Today, at least, we 
want them to be neatly tied and to stay neatly tied." 

"1 don't like hair ribbons. I'm glad I only have to wear 
them one more year," Lily said irritably. "Next year I get 
my bicycle, too," she added more cheerfully. 

"There are good things each year," Jonas reminded her. 
"This year you get to start your volunteer hours. And re- 
member last year, when you became a Seven, you were so 
happy to get your front-buttoned jacket?" 

The little girl nodded and looked down at herself, at the 
jacket with its row of large buttons that designated her as a 
Seven. Fours, Fives, and Sixes all wore jackets that fas- 
tened down the back so that they would have to help each 
other dress and would learn interdependence. 

The front-buttoned jacket was the first sign of inde- 


pendence, the first very visible symbol of growing up. The 
bicycle, at Nine, would be the powerful emblem of moving 
gradually out into the community, away from the pro- 
tective family unit. 

Lily grinned and wriggled away from her mother. "And 
this year you get your Assignment," she said to Jonas in an 
excited voice. "I hope you get Pilot. And that you take me 
flying!" 

"Sure I will," said Jonas. "And I'll get a special little 
parachute that just fits you, and I'll take you up to, oh, 
maybe twenty thousand feet, and open the door, and — " 

"Jonas," Mother warned. 

"I was only joking," Jonas groaned. "I don't want Pilot, 
anyway. If I get Pilot I'll put in an appeal." 

"Come on," Mother said. She gave Lily's ribbons a final 
tug. "Jonas? Are you ready? Did you take your pill? I want 
to get a good seat in the Auditorium." She prodded Lily to 
the front door and Jonas followed. 

It was a short ride to the Auditorium, Lily waving to her 
friends from her seat on the back of Mother's bicycle. Jonas 
stowed his bicycle beside Mother's and made his way 
through the throng to find his group. 

The entire community attended the Ceremony each year. 
For the parents, it meant two days holiday from work; they 
sat together in the huge hall. Children sat with their groups 
until they went, one by one, to the stage. 

Father, though, would not join Mother in the audience 
right away. For the earliest ceremony, the Naming, the 
Nurturers brought the newchildren to the stage. Jonas, from 
his place in the balcony with the Elevens, searched the 
Auditorium for a glimpse of Father. It wasn't at all 

41 


40 



hard to spot the Nurturers' section at the front; coming from 
it were the wails and howls of the newchildren who sat 
squirming on the Nurturers' laps. At every other public 
ceremony, the audience was silent and attentive. But once a 
year, they all smiled indulgently at the commotion from the 
little ones waiting to receive their names and families. 

Jonas finally caught his father's eye and waved. Father 
grinned and waved back, then held up the hand of the 
newchild on his lap, making it wave, too. 

It wasn't Gabriel. Gabe was back at the Nurturing Center 
today, being cared for by the night crew. He had been given 
an unusual and special reprieve from the committee, and 
granted an additional year of nurturing before his Naming 
and Placement. Father had gone before the committee with 
a plea on behalf of Gabriel, who had not yet gained the 
weight appropriate to his days of life nor begun to sleep 
soundly enough at night to be placed with his family unit. 
Normally such a newchild would be labeled Inadequate and 
released from the community. 

Instead, as a result of Father's plea, Gabriel had been 
labeled Uncertain and given the additional year. He would 
continue to be nurtured at the Center and would spend his 
nights with Jonas's family unit. Each family member, in- 
cluding Lily, had been required to sign a pledge that they 
would not become attached to this little temporary guest, 
and that they would relinquish him without protest or ap- 
peal when he was assigned to his own family unit at next 
year's Ceremony. 

At least, Jonas thought, after Gabriel was placed next 
year, they would still see him often because he would be 


part of the community. If he were released, they would not 
see him again. Ever. Those who were released — even as 
newchildren — were sent Elsewhere and never returned to 
the community. 

Father had not had to release a single newchild this year, 
so Gabriel would have represented a real failure and 
sadness. Even Jonas, though he didn't hover over the little 
one the way Lily and his father did, was glad that Gabe had 
not been released. 

The first Ceremony began right on time, and Jonas 
watched as one after another each newchild was given a 
name and handed by the Nurturers to its new family unit. 
For some, it was a first child. But many came to the stage 
accompanied by another child beaming with pride to re- 
ceive a little brother or sister, the way Jonas had when he 
was about to be a Five. 

Asher poked Jonas's arm. "Remember when we got 
Phillipa?" he asked in a loud whisper. Jonas nodded. It had 
only been last year. Asher's parents had waited quite a long 
time before applying for a second child. Maybe, Jonas 
suspected, they had been so exhausted by Asher's lively 
foolishness that they had needed a little time. 

Two of their group, Fiona and another female named 
Thea, were missing temporarily, waiting with their parents 
to receive newchildren. But it was rare that there was such 
an age gap between children in a family unit. 

When her family's ceremony was completed, Fiona took 
the seat that had been saved for her in the row ahead of 
Asher and Jonas. She turned and whispered to them, "He's 
cute. But I don't like his name very much." She made a face 
and giggled. Fiona's new brother had been 


42 


43 



named Bruno. It wasn't a great name, Jonas thought, like 
— well, like Gabriel, for example. But it was okay. 

The audience applause, which was enthusiastic at each 
Naming, rose in an exuberant swell when one parental pair, 
glowing with pride, took a male newchild and heard him 
named Caleb. 

This new Caleb was a replacement child. The couple 
had lost their first Caleb, a cheerful little Four. Loss of a 
child was very, very rare. The community was extraordi- 
narily safe, each citizen watchful and protective of all chil- 
dren. But somehow the first little Caleb had wandered 
away unnoticed, and had fallen into the river. The entire 
community had performed the Ceremony of Loss together, 
murmuring the name Caleb throughout an entire day, less 
and less frequently, softer in volume, as the long and 
somber day went on, so that the little Four seemed to fade 
away gradually from everyone's consciousness. 

Now, at this special Naming, the community per-formed 
the brief Murmur-of-Replacement Ceremony, repeating the 
name for the first time since the loss: softly and slowly at 
first, then faster and with greater volume, as the couple 
stood on the stage with the newchild sleeping in the 
mother's arms. It was as if the first Caleb were returning. 

Another newchild was given the name Roberto, and 
Jonas remembered that Roberto the Old had been released 
only last week. But there was no Murmur-of-Replacement 
Ceremony for the new little Roberto. Release was not the 
same as Loss. 

He sat politely through the ceremonies of Two and 
Three and Four, increasingly bored as he was each year. 
Then a break for midday meal — served outdoors — and 


back again to the seats, for the Fives, Sixes, Sevens, and fi- 
nally, last of the first day's ceremonies, the Eights. 

Jonas watched and cheered as Lily marched proudly to 
the stage, became an Eight and received the identifying 
jacket that she would wear this year, this one with smaller 
buttons and, for the first time, pockets, indicating that she 
was mature enough now to keep track of her own small 
belongings. She stood solemnly listening to the speech of 
firm instructions on the responsibilities of Eight and doing 
volunteer hours for the first time. But Jonas could see that 
Lily, though she seemed attentive, was looking longingly 
at the row of gleaming bicycles, which would be presented 
tomorrow morning to the Nines. 

Next year, Lily-billy, Jonas thought. 

It was an exhausting day, and even Gabriel, retrieved in 
his basket from the Nurturing Center, slept soundly that 
night. 

Finally it was the morning of the Ceremony of Twelve. 

Now Father sat beside Mother in the audience. Jonas could 
see them applauding dutifully as the Nines, one by one, 
wheeled their new bicycles, each with its gleaming 
nametag attached to the back, from the stage. He knew that 
his parents cringed a little, as he did, when Fritz, who lived 
in the dwelling next door to theirs, received his bike and 
almost immediately bumped into the podium with it. Fritz 
was a very awkward child who had been summoned for 
chastisement again and again. His transgressions were 
small ones, always: shoes on the wrong feet, schoolwork 
misplaced, failure to study adequately for a quiz. But each 
such error reflected negatively on his parents' guidance and 


44 


45 



infringed on the community's sense of order and success. 
Jonas and his family had not been looking forward to Fritz's 
bicycle, which they realized would probably too often be 
dropped on the front walk instead of wheeled neatly into its 
port. 

Finally the Nines were all resettled in their seats, each 
having wheeled a bicycle outside where it would be waiting 
for its owner at the end of the day. Everyone always 
chuckled and made small jokes when the Nines rode home 
for the first time. "Want me to show you how to ride?" older 
friends would call. "I know you've never been on a bike 
before!" But invariably the grinning Nines, who in technical 
violation of the rule had been practicing secretly for weeks, 
would mount and ride off in perfect balance, training wheels 
never touching the ground. 

Then the Tens. Jonas never found the Ceremony of Ten 
particularly interesting — only time-consuming, as each 
child's hair was snipped neatly into its distinguishing cut: 
females lost their braids at Ten, and males, too, relinquished 
their long childish hair and took on the more manly short 
style which exposed their ears. 

Laborers moved quickly to the stage with brooms and 
swept away the mounds of discarded hair. Jonas could see 
the parents of the new Tens stir and murmur, and he knew 
that this evening, in many dwellings, they would be snip- 
ping and straightening the hastily done haircuts, trimming 
them into a neater line. 

Elevens. It seemed a short time ago that Jonas had un- 
dergone the Ceremony of Eleven, but he remembered that it 
was not one of the more interesting ones. By Eleven, one 
was only waiting to be Twelve. It was simply a marking of 


time with no meaningful changes. There was new clothing: 
different undergarments for the females, whose bodies were 
beginning to change; and longer trousers for the males, with 
a specially shaped pocket for the small calculator that they 
would use this year in school; but those were simply 
presented in wrapped packages without an accompanying 
speech. 

Break for midday meal. Jonas realized he was hungry. He 
and his groupmates congregated by the tables in front of the 
Auditorium and took their packaged food. Yesterday there 
had been merriment at lunch, a lot of teasing and energy. 
But today the group stood anxiously, separate from the other 
children. Jonas watched the new Nines gravitate toward their 
waiting bicycles, each one admiring his or her nametag. He 
saw the Tens stroking their new shortened hair, the females 
shaking their heads to feel the unaccustomed lightness 
without the heavy braids they had worn so long. 

"I heard about a guy who was absolutely certain he was 
going to be assigned Engineer," Asher muttered as they ate, 
"and instead they gave him Sanitation Laborer. He went out 
the next day, jumped into the river, swam across, and joined 
the next community he came to. Nobody ever saw him 
again." 

Jonas laughed. "Somebody made that story up. Ash," he 
said. "My father said he heard that story when he was a 
Twelve." 

But Asher wasn't reassured. He was eyeing the river 
where it was visible behind the Auditorium. "I can't even 
swim very well," he said. "My swimming instructor said that 
I don't have the right boyishness or something." 


46 


47 



"Buoyancy," Jonas corrected him. 

"Whatever. I don't have it. I sink." 

"Anyway," Jonas pointed out, "have you ever once 
known of anyone — I mean really known for sure, Asher, 
not just heard a story about it — who joined another com- 
munity?" 

"No," Asher admitted reluctantly. "But you can. It says 
so in the rules. If you don't fit in, you can apply for 
Elsewhere and be released. My mother says that once, 
about ten years ago, someone applied and was gone the 
next day." Then he chuckled. "She told me that because I 
was driving her crazy. She threatened to apply for Else- 
where." 

"She was joking." 

"I know. But it was true, what she said, that someone did 
that once. She said that it was really true. Here today and 
gone tomorrow. Never seen again. Not even a Ceremony of 
Release." 

Jonas shrugged. It didn't worry him. How could some- 
one not fit in? The community was so meticulously ordered, 
the choices so carefully made. 

Even the Matching of Spouses was given such weighty 
consideration that sometimes an adult who applied to re- 
ceive a spouse waited months or even years before a Match 
was approved and announced. All of the factors — dispo- 
sition, energy level, intelligence, and interests — had to 
correspond and to interact perfectly. Jonas's mother, for 
example, had higher intelligence than his father; but his 
father had a calmer disposition. They balanced each other. 
Their Match, which like all Matches had been monitored by 
the Committee of Elders for three years before they 


could apply for children, had always been a successful one. 

Like the Matching of Spouses and the Naming and 
Placement of newchildren, the Assignments were scrupu- 
lously thought through by the Committee of Elders. 

He was certain that his Assignment, whatever it was to 
be, and Asher's too, would be the right one for them. He 
only wished that the midday break would conclude, that the 
audience would reenter the Auditorium, and the suspense 
would end. 

As if in answer to his unspoken wish, the signal came 
and the crowd began to move toward the doors. 


48 


49 



7 


Now Jonas's group had taken a new place in the Auditorium, 
trading with the new Elevens, so that they sat in the very 
front, immediately before the stage. 

They were arranged by their original numbers, the 
numbers they had been given at birth. The numbers were 
rarely used after the Naming. But each child knew his 
number, of course. Sometimes parents used them in irrita- 
tion at a child's misbehavior, indicating that mischief made 
one unworthy of a name. Jonas always chuckled when he 
heard a parent, exasperated, call sharply to a whining 
toddler, "That's enough, Twenty-three!" 

Jonas was Nineteen. He had been the nineteenth new- 
child born his year. It had meant that at his Naming, he had 
been already standing and bright-eyed, soon to walk and 
talk. It had given him a slight advantage the first year or 
two, a little more maturity than many of his group-mates 
who had been bom in the later months of that year. But it 
evened out, as it always did, by Three. 

After Three, the children progressed at much the same 
level, though by their first number one could always tell 
who was a few months older than others in his group. 
Technically, Jonas's full number was Eleven-nineteen, 


since there were other Nineteens, of course, in each age 
group. And today, now that the new Elevens had been ad- 
vanced this morning, there were two Eleven-nineteens. At 
the midday break he had exchanged smiles with the new 
one, a shy female named Harriet. 

But the duplication was only for these few hours. Very 
soon he would not be an Eleven but a Twelve, and age 
would no longer matter. He would be an adult, like his 
parents, though a new one and untrained still. 

Asher was Four, and sat now in the row ahead of Jonas. 
He would receive his Assignment fourth. 

Fiona, Eighteen, was on his left; on his other side sat 
Twenty, a male named Pierre whom Jonas didn't like much. 
Pierre was very serious, not much fun, and a worrier and 
tattletale, too. "Have you checked the rules, Jonas?" Pierre 
was always whispering solemnly. "I'm not sure that's within 
the rules." Usually it was some foolish thing that no one 
cared about — opening his tunic if it was a day with a 
breeze; taking a brief try on a friend's bicycle, just to 
experience the different feel of it. 

The initial speech at the Ceremony of Twelve was made 
by the Chief Elder, the leader of the community who was 
elected every ten years. The speech was much the same each 
year: recollection of the time of childhood and the period of 
preparation, the coming responsibilities of adult life, the 
profound importance of Assignment, the seriousness of 
training to come. 

Then the Chief Elder moved ahead in her speech. 

"This is the time," she began, looking directly at them, when 
we acknowledge differences. You Elevens have spent all 
your years till now learning to fit in, to standard- 


50 


51 



ize your behavior, to curb any impulse that might set you 
apart from the group. 

"But today we honor your differences. They have deter- 
mined your futures." 

She began to describe this year's group and its variety of 
personalities, though she singled no one out by name. She 
mentioned that there was one who had singular skills at 
caretaking, another who loved newchildren, one with un- 
usual scientific aptitude, and a fourth for whom physical 
labor was an obvious pleasure. Jonas shifted in his seat, 
trying to recognize each reference as one of his group- 
mates. The caretaking skills were no doubt those of Fiona, 
on his left; he remembered noticing the tenderness with 
which she had bathed the Old. Probably the one with sci- 
entific aptitude was Benjamin, the male who had devised 
new, important equipment for the Rehabilitation Center. 

He heard nothing that he recognized as himself, Jonas. 

Finally the Chief Elder paid tribute to the hard work of 
her committee, which had performed the observations so 
meticulously all year. The Committee of Elders stood and 
was acknowledged by applause. Jonas noticed Asher yawn 
slightly, covering his mouth politely with his hand. 

Then, at last, the Chief Elder called number One to the 
stage, and the Assignments began. 

Each announcement was lengthy, accompanied by a 
speech directed at the new Twelve. Jonas tried to pay at- 
tention as One, smiling happily, received her Assignment as 
Fish Hatchery Attendant along with words of praise for her 
childhood spent doing many volunteer hours there, and her 
obvious interest in the important process of providing 
nourishment for the community. 


Number One — her name was Madeline — returned, 
finally, amidst applause, to her seat, wearing the new 
badge that designated her Fish Hatchery Attendant. Jonas 
was certainly glad that that Assignment was taken; he 
wouldn't have wanted it. But he gave Madeline a smile of 
congratulation. 

When Two, a female named Inger, received her Assign- 
ment as Birthmother, Jonas remembered that his mother 
had called it a job without honor. But he thought that the 
Committee had chosen well. Inger was a nice girl though 
somewhat lazy, and her body was strong. She would enjoy 
the three years of being pampered that would follow her 
brief training; she would give birth easily and well; and the 
task of Laborer that would follow would use her strength, 
keep her healthy, and impose self-discipline. Inger was 
smiling when she resumed her seat. Birthmother was an 
important job, if lacking in prestige. 

Jonas noticed that Asher looked nervous. He kept turn- 
ing his head and glancing back at Jonas until the group 
leader had to give him a silent chastisement, a motion to 
sit still and face forward. 

Three, Isaac, was given an Assignment as Instructor of 
Sixes, which obviously pleased him and was well deserved. 
Now there were three Assignments gone, none of them 
ones that Jonas would have liked — not that he could have 
been a Birthmother, anyway, he realized with amusement. 
He tried to sort through the list in his mind, the possible 
Assignments that remained. But there were so many he 
gave it up; and anyway, now it was Asher's turn. He paid 
strict attention as his friend went to the stage and stood 
self-consciously beside the Chief Elder. 


52 


53 



"All of us in the community know and enjoy Asher," the 
Chief Elder began. Asher grinned and scratched one leg 
with the other foot. The audience chuckled softly. 

"When the committee began to consider Asher's 
Assignment," she went on, "there were some possibilities 
that were immediately discarded. Some that would clearly, 
not have been right for Asher. 

"For example," she said, smiling, "we did not consider 
for an instant designating Asher an Instructor of Threes." 

The audience howled with laughter. Asher laughed, too, 
looking sheepish but pleased at the special attention. The 
Instructors of Threes were in charge of the acquisition of 
correct language. 

"In fact," the Chief Elder continued, chuckling a little 
herself, "we even gave a little thought to some retroactive 
chastisement for the one who had been Asher's Instructor of 
Threes so long ago. At the meeting where Asher was 
discussed, we retold many of the stories that we all re- 
membered from his days of language acquisition. 

"Especially," she said, chuckling, "the difference between 
snack and smack. Remember, Asher?" 

Asher nodded ruefully, and the audience laughed aloud. 
Jonas did, too. He remembered, though he had been only a 
Three at the time himself. 

The punishment used for small children was a regulated 
system of smacks with the discipline wand: a thin, flexible 
weapon that stung painfully when it was wielded. The 
Childcare specialists were trained very carefully in the dis- 
cipline methods: a quick smack across the hands for a bit of 
minor misbehavior; three sharper smacks on the bare legs 
for a second offense. 


Poor Asher, who always talked too fast and mixed up 
words, even as a toddler. As a Three, eager for his juice and 
crackers at snacktime, he one day said "smack" in-stead of 
"snack" as he stood waiting in line for the morning treat. 

Jonas remembered it clearly. He could still see little 
Asher, wiggling with impatience in the line. He remembered 
the cheerful voice call out, "I want my smack!" 

The other Threes, including Jonas, had laughed ner- 
vously. "Snack!" they corrected. "You meant snack, Asher!" 
But the mistake had been made. And precision of language 
was one of the most important tasks of small children. Asher 
had asked for a smack. 

The discipline wand, in the hand of the Childcare worker, 
whistled as it came down across Asher's hands. Asher 
whimpered, cringed, and corrected himself instantly. 
"Snack," he whispered. 

But the next morning he had done it again. And again the 
following week. He couldn't seem to stop, though for each 
lapse the discipline wand came again, escalating to a series 
of painful lashes that left marks on Asher's legs. Eventually, 
for a period of time, Asher stopped talking altogether, when 
he was a Three. 

"For a while," the Chief Elder said, relating the story, we 
had a silent Asher! But he learned." 

She turned to him with a smile. "When he began to talk 
again, it was with greater precision. And now his lapses are 
very few. His corrections and apologies are very prompt. 
And his good humor is unfailing." The audience murmured 
in agreement. Asher's cheerful disposition was well-known 
throughout the community. 


54 


55 



"Asher." She lifted her voice to make the official an- 
nouncement. "We have given you the Assignment of As- 
sistant Director of Recreation." 

She clipped on his new badge as he stood beside her, 
beaming. Then he turned and left the stage as the audience 
cheered. When he had taken his seat again, the Chief Elder 
looked down at him and said the words that she had said 
now four times, and would say to each new Twelve. 
Somehow she gave it special meaning for each of them. 
"Asher," she said, "thank you for your childhood." 

The Assignments continued, and Jonas watched and lis- 
tened, relieved now by the wonderful Assignment his best 
friend had been given. But he was more and more appre- 
hensive as his own approached. Now the new Twelves in 
the row ahead had all received their badges. They were 
fingering them as they sat, and Jonas knew that each one 
was thinking about the training that lay ahead. For some — 
one studious male had been selected as Doctor, a female as 
Engineer, and another for Law and Justice — it would be 
years of hard work and study. Others, like Laborers and 
Birthmothers, would have a much shorter training period. 

Eighteen, Fiona, on his left, was called. Jonas knew she 
must be nervous, but Fiona was a calm female. She had 
been sitting quietly, serenely, throughout the Ceremony. 

Even the applause, though enthusiastic, seemed serene 
when Fiona was given the important Assignment of Care- 
taker of the Old. It was perfect for such a sensitive, gentle 
girl, and her smile was satisfied and pleased when she took 
her seat beside him again. 


Jonas prepared himself to walk to the stage when the 
applause ended and the Chief Elder picked up the next 
folder and looked down to the group to call forward the 
next new Twelve. He was calm now that his turn had come. 
He took a deep breath and smoothed his hair with his hand. 

"Twenty," he heard her voice say clearly. "Pierre." 

She skipped me, Jonas thought, stunned. Had he heard 
wrong? No. There was a sudden hush in the crowd, and he 
knew that the entire community realized that the Chief 
Elder had moved from Eighteen to Twenty, leaving a gap. 
On his right, Pierre, with a startled look, rose from his seat 
and moved to the stage. 

A mistake. She made a mistake. But Jonas knew, even as 
he had the thought, that she hadn't. The Chief Elder made 
no mistakes. Not at the Ceremony of Twelve. 

He felt dizzy, and couldn't focus his attention. He didn't 
hear what Assignment Pierre received, and was only dimly 
aware of the applause as the boy returned, wearing his new 
badge. Then: Twenty-one. Twenty-two. 

The numbers continued in order. Jonas sat, dazed, as they 
moved into the Thirties and then the Forties, nearing the 
end. Each time, at each announcement, his heart jumped for 
a moment, and he thought wild thoughts. Perhaps now she 
would call his name. Could he have forgotten his own 
number? No. He had always been Nineteen. He was sitting 
in the seat marked Nineteen. 

But she had skipped him. He saw the others in his group 
glance at him, embarrassed, and then avert their eyes 
quickly. He saw a worried look on the face of his group 
leader. 


56 


57 



He hunched his shoulders and tried to make himself 
smaller in the seat. He wanted to disappear, to fade away, 
not to exist. He didn't dare to turn and find his parents in 
the crowd. He couldn't bear to see their faces darkened with 
shame. 

Jonas bowed his head and searched through his mind. 
What had he done wrong? 


58 


8 


The audience was clearly ill at ease. They applauded at the 
final Assignment; but the applause was piecemeal, no 
longer a crescendo of united enthusiasm. There were mur- 
murs of confusion. 

Jonas moved his hands together, clapping, but it was an 
automatic, meaningless gesture that he wasn't even aware 
of. His mind had shut out all of the earlier emotions: the 
anticipation, excitement, pride, and even the happy kinship 
with his friends. Now he felt only humiliation and terror. 

The Chief Elder waited until the uneasy applause sub- 
sided. Then she spoke again. 

"I know," she said in her vibrant, gracious voice, "that 
you are all concerned. That you feel I have made a mis- 
take." 

She smiled. The community, relieved from its discom- 
fort very slightly by her benign statement, seemed to 
breathe more easily. It was very silent. 

Jonas looked up. 

"I have caused you anxiety," she said. "I apologize to 
my community." Her voice flowed over the assembled 
crowd. 


59 



"We accept your apology," they all uttered together. 

"Jonas," she said, looking down at him, "I apologize to 
you in particular. I caused you anguish." 

"I accept your apology," Jonas replied shakily. 

"Please come to the stage now." 

Earlier that day, dressing in his own dwelling, he had 
practiced the kind of jaunty, self-assured walk that he hoped 
he could make to the stage when his turn came. All of that 
was forgotten now. He simply willed himself to stand, to 
move his feet that felt weighted and clumsy, to go forward, 
up the steps and across the platform until he stood at her 
side. 

Reassuringly she placed her arm across his tense 
shoulders. 

"Jonas has not been assigned," she informed the crowd, 
and his heart sank. 

Then she went on. "Jonas has been selected. " 

He blinked. What did that mean? He felt a collective, 
questioning stir from the audience. They, too, were puzzled. 

In a firm, commanding voice she announced, "Jonas has 
been selected to be our next Receiver of Memory." 

Then he heard the gasp — the sudden intake of breath, 
drawn sharply in astonishment, by each of the seated citi- 
zens. He saw their faces; the eyes widened in awe. 

And still he did not understand. 

"Such a selection is very, very rare," the Chief Elder told 
the audience. "Our community has only one Receiver. It is 
he who trains his successor. 

"We have had our current Receiver for a very long time," 
she went on. Jonas followed her eyes and saw that 


she was looking at one of the Elders. The Committee of 
Elders was sitting together in a group; and the Chief Elder's 
eyes were now on one who sat in the midst but seemed oddly 
separate from them. It was a man Jonas had never noticed 
before, a bearded man with pale eyes. He was watching 
Jonas intently. 

"We failed in our last selection," the Chief Elder said 
solemnly. "It was ten years ago, when Jonas was just a 
toddler. I will not dwell on the experience because it causes 
us all terrible discomfort." 

Jonas didn't know what she was referring to, but he could 
sense the discomfort of the audience. They shifted uneasily 
in their seats. 

"We have not been hasty this time," she continued. "We 
could not afford another failure." 

"Sometimes," she went on, speaking now in a lighter 
tone, relaxing the tension in the Auditorium, "we are not 
entirely certain about the Assignments, even after the most 
painstaking observations. Sometimes we worry that the one 
assigned might not develop, through training, every 
attribute necessary. Elevens are still children, after all. What 
we observe as playfulness and patience — the requirements 
to become Nurturer — could, with maturity, be revealed as 
simply foolishness and indolence. So we continue to 
observe during training, and to modify behavior when 
necessary. 

"But the Receiver-in-training cannot be observed, can- 
not be modified. That is stated quite clearly in the rules. He 
is to be alone, apart, while he is prepared by the cur-rent 
Receiver for the job which is the most honored in our 
community." 


60 


61 



Alone? Apart? Jonas listened with increasing unease. 

"Therefore the selection must be sound. It must be a 
unanimous choice of the Committee. They can have no 
doubts, however fleeting. If, during the process, an Elder 
reports a dream of uncertainty, that dream has the power to 
set a candidate aside instantly. 

"Jonas was identified as a possible Receiver many years 
ago. We have observed him meticulously. There were no 
dreams of uncertainty. 

"He has shown all of the qualities that a Receiver must 
have." 

With her hand still firmly on his shoulder, the Chief 
Elder listed the qualities. 

"Intelligence," she said. "We are all aware that Jonas 
has been a top student throughout his school days. 

''Integrity,” she said next. "Jonas has, like all of us, 
committed minor transgressions." She smiled at him. "We 
expect that. We hoped, also, that he would present himself 
promptly for chastisement, and he has always done so. 

"Courage, " she went on. "Only one of us here today has 
ever undergone the rigorous training required of a Receiver. 
He, of course, is the most important member of the 
Committee: the current Receiver. It was he who reminded 
us, again and again, of the courage required. 

"Jonas," she said, turning to him, but speaking in a voice 
that the entire community could hear, "the training required 
of you involves pain. Physical pain." 

He felt fear flutter within him. 

"You have never experienced that. Yes, you have 
scraped your knees in falls from your bicycle. Yes, you 
crushed your finger in a door last year." 


Jonas nodded, agreeing, as he recalled the incident, and 
its accompanying misery. 

"But you will be faced, now," she explained gently, 
“with pain of a magnitude that none of us here can com- 
prehend because it is beyond our experience. The Receiver 
himself was not able to describe it, only to remind us that 
you would be faced with it, that you would need immense 
courage. We cannot prepare you for that. 

"But we feel certain that you are brave," she said to 
him. 

He did not feel brave at all. Not now. 

"The fourth essential attribute," the Chief Elder said, "is 
wisdom. Jonas has not yet acquired that. The acquisition 
of wisdom will come through his training. 

"We are convinced that Jonas has the ability to acquire 
wisdom. That is what we looked for. 

"Finally, The Receiver must have one more quality, and 
it is one which I can only name, but not describe. I do not 
understand it. You members of the community will not 
understand it, either. Perhaps Jonas will, because the 
current Receiver has told us that Jonas already has this 
quality. He calls it the Capacity to See Beyond." 

The Chief Elder looked at Jonas with a question in her 
eyes. The audience watched him, too. They were silent. 

For a moment he froze, consumed with despair. He 
didn't have it, the whatever-she-had-said. He didn't know 
what it was. Now was the moment when he would have to 
confess, to say, "No, I don't. I can't," and throw himself on 
their mercy, ask their forgiveness, to explain that he had 
been wrongly chosen, that he was not the right one at all. 


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But when he looked out across the crowd, the sea of 
faces, the thing happened again. The thing that had hap- 
pened with the apple. 

They changed. 

He blinked, and it was gone. His shoulders straightened 
slightly. Briefly he felt a tiny sliver of sureness for the first 
time. 

She was still watching him. They all were. 

"I think it's true," he told the Chief Elder and the com- 
munity. "I don't understand it yet. I don't know what it is. 
But sometimes I see something. And maybe it's beyond." 

She took her arm from his shoulders. 

"Jonas," she said, speaking not to him alone but to the 
entire community of which he was a part, "you will be 
trained to be our next Receiver of Memory. We thank you 
for your childhood." 

Then she turned and left the stage, left him there alone, 
standing and facing the crowd, which began spontaneously 
the collective murmur of his name. 

"Jonas." It was a whisper at first: hushed, barely audi- 
ble. "Jonas. Jonas." 

Then louder, faster. "JONAS. JONAS. JONAS." 

With the chant, Jonas knew, the community was ac- 
cepting him and his new role, giving him life, the way they 
had given it to the newchild Caleb. His heart swelled with 
gratitude and pride. 

But at the same time he was filled with fear. He did not 
know what his selection meant. He did not know what he 
was to become. 

Or what would become of him. 


9 


Now, for the first time in his twelve years of life, Jonas felt 
separate, different. He remembered what the Chief Elder 
had said: that his training would be alone and apart. 

But his training had not yet begun and already, upon 
leaving the Auditorium, he felt the apartness. Holding the 
folder she had given him, he made his way through the 
throng, looking for his family unit and for Asher. People 
moved aside for him. They watched him. He thought he 
could hear whispers. 

"Ash!" he called, spotting his friend near the rows of 
bicycles. "Ride back with me?" 

"Sure." Asher smiled, his usual smile, friendly and fa- 
miliar. But Jonas felt a moment of hesitation from his 
friend, an uncertainty. 

"Congratulations," Asher said. 

"You too," Jonas replied. "It was really funny, when 
she told about the smacks. You got more applause than 
almost anybody else." 

The other new Twelves clustered nearby, placing their 
folders carefully into the carrying containers on the backs 
of the bikes. In each dwelling tonight they would be 


64 


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studying the instructions for the beginning of their training. 
Each night for years the children had memorized the 
required lessons for school, often yawning with boredom. 
Tonight they would all begin eagerly to memorize the rules 
for their adult Assignments. 

"Congratulations, Asher!" someone called. Then that 
hesitation again. "You too, Jonas!" 

Asher and Jonas responded with congratulations to their 
groupmates. Jonas saw his parents watching him from the 
place where their own bicycles were waiting. Lily had 
already been strapped into her seat. 

He waved. They waved back, smiling, but he noticed 
that Lily was watching him solemnly, her thumb in her 
mouth. 

He rode directly to his dwelling, exchanging only small 
jokes and unimportant remarks with Asher. 

"See you in the morning, Recreation Director!" he 
called, dismounting by his door as Asher continued on. 

"Right! See you!" Asher called back. Once again, there 
was just a moment when things weren't quite the same, 
weren't quite as they had always been through the long 
friendship. Perhaps he had imagined it. Things couldn't 
change, with Asher. 

The evening meal was quieter than usual. Lily chattered 
about her plans for volunteer work; she would begin, she 
said, at the Nurturing Center, since she was already an ex- 
pert at feeding Gabriel. 

"I know," she added quickly, when her father gave her a 
warning glance, "I won't mention his name. I know I'm not 
supposed to know his name. 

"I can't wait for tomorrow to come," she said happily. 

Jonas sighed uneasily. "I can," he muttered. 


"You've been greatly honored," his mother said. "Your 
father and I are very proud." 

"It's the most important job in the community," Father 
said. 

"But just the other night, you said that the job of making 
Assignments was the most important!" 

Mother nodded. "This is different. It's not a job, really. I 
never thought, never expected — " She paused. "There's 
only one Receiver." 

"But the Chief Elder said that they had made a selection 
before, and that it failed. What was she talking about?" 

Both of his parents hesitated. Finally his father de- 
scribed the previous selection. "It was very much as it was 
today, Jonas — the same suspense, as one Eleven had been 
passed over when the Assignments were given. Then the 
announcement, when they singled out the one — " 

Jonas interrupted. "What was his name?" 

His mother replied, "Her, not his. It was a female. But 
we are never to speak the name, or to use it again for a 
newchild." 

Jonas was shocked. A name designated Not-to-Be- 
Spoken indicated the highest degree of disgrace. 

"What happened to her?" he asked nervously. 

But his parents looked blank. "We don't know," his fa- 
ther said uncomfortably. "We never saw her again." 

A silence fell over the room. They looked at each other. 
Finally his mother, rising from the table, said, "You've 
been greatly honored, Jonas. Greatly honored." 

Alone in his sleepingroom, prepared for bed, Jonas opened 
his folder at last. Some of the other Twelves, he had no- 


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ticed, had been given folders thick with printed pages. He 
imagined Benjamin, the scientific male in his group, be- 
ginning to read pages of rules and instructions with relish. 
He pictured Fiona smiling her gentle smile as she bent over 
the lists of duties and methods that she would be required to 
learn in the days to come. 

But his own folder was startlingly close to empty. Inside 
there was only a single printed sheet. He read it twice. 

JONAS 

RECEIVER OF MEMORY 

1 . Go immediately at the end of school hours each 
day to the Annex entrance behind the House of the 
Old and present yourself to the attendant. 

2. Go immediately to your dwelling at the con- 
clusion of Training Hours each day. 

3. From this moment you are exempted from rules 
governing rudeness. You may ask any question of 
any citizen and you will receive answers. 

4. Do not discuss your training with any other 
member of the community, including parents and 
Elders. 

5. From this moment you are prohibited from 
dream-telling. 

6. Except for illness or injury unrelated to your 
training, do not apply for any medication. 

7. You are not permitted to apply for release. 


Jonas was stunned. What would happen to his friend- 
ships? His mindless hours playing ball, or riding his bike 
along the river? Those had been happy and vital times for 
him. Were they to be completely taken from him, now? The 
simple logistic instructions — where to go, and when — 
were expected. Every Twelve had to be told, of course, 
where and how and when to report for training. But he was a 
little dismayed that his schedule left no time, apparently, for 
recreation. 

The exemption from rudeness startled him. Reading it 
again, however, he realized that it didn't compel him to be 
rude; it simply allowed him the option. He was quite certain 
he would never take advantage of it. He was so completely, 
so thoroughly accustomed to courtesy within the community 
that the thought of asking another citizen an intimate 
question, of calling someone's attention to an area of 
awkwardness, was unnerving. 

The prohibition of dream-telling, he thought, would not be 
a real problem. He dreamed so rarely that the dream-telling 
did not come easily to him anyway, and he was glad to be 
excused from it. He wondered briefly, though, how to deal 
with it at the morning meal. What if he did dream — should 
he simply tell his family unit, as he did so often, anyway, 
that he hadn't? That would be a lie. Still, the final rule said ... 
well, he wasn't quite ready to think about the final rule on 
the page. 

The restriction of medication unnerved him. Medication 
was always available to citizens, even to children, through 
their parents. When he had crushed his finger in the door, he 
had quickly, gasping into the speaker, notified his mother; 
she had hastily requisitioned relief-of-pain 


8. You may lie. 


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69 



medication which had promptly been delivered to his 
dwelling. Almost instantly the excruciating pain in his hand 
had diminished to the throb which was, now, all he could 
recall of the experience. 

Re-reading rule number 6, he realized that a crushed 
finger fell into the category of "unrelated to training." So if it 
ever happened again — and he was quite certain it wouldn't; 
he had been very careful near heavy doors since the 
accident! — he could still receive medication. 

The pill he took now, each morning, was also unrelated to 
training. So he would continue to receive the pill. 

But he remembered uneasily what the Chief Elder had 
said about the pain that would come with his training. She 
had called it indescribable. 

Jonas swallowed hard, trying without success to imagine 
what such pain might be like, with no medication at all. But 
it was beyond his comprehension. 

He felt no reaction to rule number 7 at all. It had never 
occurred to him that under any circumstances, ever, he might 
apply for release. 

Finally he steeled himself to read the final rule again. He 
had been trained since earliest childhood, since his earliest 
learning of language, never to lie. It was an integral part of 
the learning of precise speech. Once, when he had been a 
Four, he had said, just prior to the midday meal at school, 
"I'm starving." 

Immediately he had been taken aside for a brief private 
lesson in language precision. He was not starving, it was 
pointed out. He was hungry. No one in the community was 
starving, had ever been starving, would ever be starving. To 
say "starving" was to speak a lie. An uninten- 


tioned lie, of course. But the reason for precision of 
language was to ensure that unintentional lies were never 
uttered. Did he understand that' they asked him. And he 
had. 

He had never, within his memory, been tempted to lie. 
Asher did not lie. Fily did not lie. His parents did not lie. 
No one did. Unless ... 

Now Jonas had a thought that he had never had before. 
This new thought was frightening. What if others — adults 
— had, upon becoming Twelves, received in their 
instructions the same terrifying sentence? 

What if they had all been instructed: You may lie? 

His mind reeled. Now, empowered to ask questions of 
utmost rudeness — and promised answers — he could, 
conceivably (though it was almost unimaginable), ask 
someone, some adult, his father perhaps: "Do you lie?- 

But he would have no way of knowing if the answer he 
received were true. 


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10 


"I go in here, Jonas," Fiona told him when they reached 
the front door of the House of the Old after parking their 
bicycles in the designated area. 

"I don't know why I'm nervous," she confessed. "I've 
been here so often before." She turned her folder over in 
her hands. 

"Well, everything's different now," Jonas reminded her. 

"Even the nameplates on our bikes," Fiona laughed. 
During the night the nameplate of each new Twelve had 
been removed by the Maintenance Crew and replaced with 
the style that indicated citizen-in-training. 

"I don't want to be late," she said hastily, and started up 
the steps. "If we finish at the same time, I'll ride home with 
you." 

Jonas nodded, waved to her, and headed around the 
building toward the Annex, a small wing attached to the 
back. He certainly didn't want to be late for his first day of 
training, either. 

The Annex was very ordinary, its door unremarkable. He 
reached for the heavy handle, then noticed a buzzer on the 
wall. So he buzzed instead. 


"Yes?" The voice came through a small speaker above 
the buzzer. 

"It's, uh, Jonas. I'm the new — I mean — " 

„Come in.” A click indicated that the door had been 
unlatched. 

The lobby was very small and contained only a desk at 
which a female Attendant sat working on some papers. She 
looked up when he entered; then, to his surprise, she stood. 
It was a small thing, the standing; but no one had ever 
stood automatically to acknowledge Jonas's presence 
before. 

"Welcome, Receiver of Memory," she said respectfully. 

"Oh, please," he replied uncomfortably. "Call me 
Jonas." 

She smiled, pushed a button, and he heard a click that 
unlocked the door to her left. "You may go right on in," 
she told him. 

Then she seemed to notice his discomfort and to realize 
its origin. No doors in the community were locked, ever. 
None that Jonas knew of, anyway. 

"The locks are simply to insure The Receiver's privacy 
because he needs concentration," she explained. "It would 
be difficult if citizens wandered in, looking for the Depart- 
ment of Bicycle Repair, or something." 

Jonas laughed, relaxing a little. The woman seemed 
very friendly, and it was true — in fact it was a joke 
throughout the community — that the Department of Bi- 
cycle Repair, an unimportant little office, was relocated so 
often that no one ever knew where it was. 

"There is nothing dangerous here," she told him. "But," 
she added, glancing at the wall clock, "he doesn't like to 
be kept waiting." 


72 


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Jonas hurried through the door and found himself in a 
comfortably furnished living area. It was not unlike his own 
family unit's dwelling. Furniture was standard throughout 
the community: practical, sturdy, the function of each piece 
clearly defined. A bed for sleeping. A table for eating. A 
desk for studying. 

All of those things were in this spacious room, though 
each was slightly different from those in his own dwelling. 
The fabrics on the upholstered chairs and sofa were slightly 
thicker and more luxurious; the table legs were not straight 
like those at home, but slender and curved, with a small 
carved decoration at the foot. The bed, in an alcove at the 
far end of the room, was draped with a splendid cloth 
embroidered over its entire surface with intricate de-signs. 

But the most conspicuous difference was the books. In 
his own dwelling, there were the necessary reference vol- 
umes that each household contained: a dictionary, and the 
thick community volume which contained descriptions of 
every office, factory, building, and committee. And the 
Book of Rules, of course. 

The books in his own dwelling were the only books that 
Jonas had ever seen. He had never known that other books 
existed. 

But this room's walls were completely covered by 
bookcases, filled, which reached to the ceiling. There must 
have been hundreds — perhaps thousands — of books, their 
titles embossed in shiny letters. 

Jonas stared at them. He couldn't imagine what the 
thousands of pages contained. Could there be rules beyond 
the rules that governed the community? Could there be 


more descriptions of offices and factories and committees? 

He had only a second to look around because he was 
aware that the man sitting in a chair beside the table was 
watching him. Hastily he moved forward, stood before the 
man, bowed slightly, and said, "I'm Jonas." 

"I know. Welcome, Receiver of Memory." 

Jonas recognized the man. He was the Elder who had 
seemed separate from the others at the Ceremony, though 
he was dressed in the same special clothing that only 
Elders wore. 

Jonas looked self-consciously into the pale eyes that 
mirrored his own. 

"Sir, I apologize for my lack of understanding...." 

He waited, but the man did not give the standard 
accepting-of-apology response. 

After a moment, Jonas went on, "But I thought — I 
mean I think, " he corrected, reminding himself that if pre- 
cision of language were ever to be important, it was cer- 
tainly important now, in the presence of this man, "that you 
are the receiver of Memory. I'm only, well, I was only 
assigned, I mean selected, yesterday. I'm not anything at 
all. Not yet." 

The man looked at him thoughtfully, silently. It was a 
look that combined interest, curiosity, concern, and per- 
haps a little sympathy as well. 

Finally he spoke. "Beginning today, this moment, at 
least to me, you are The Receiver. 

"I have been The Receiver for a long time. A very, very 
long time. You can see that, can't you?" 

Jonas nodded. The man was wrinkled, and his eyes, 
though piercing in their unusual lightness, seemed tired. 


74 


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The flesh around them was darkened into shadowed circles. 

"I can see that you are very old," Jonas responded with 
respect. The Old were always given the highest respect. 

The man smiled. He touched the sagging flesh on his 
own face with amusement. "I am not, actually, as old as I 
look," he told Jonas. "This job has aged me. I know I look 
as if I should be scheduled for release very soon. But actu- 
ally I have a good deal of time left. 

"I was pleased, though, when you were selected. It took 
them a long time. The failure of the previous selection was 
ten years ago, and my energy is starting to diminish. I need 
what strength I have remaining for your training. We have 
hard and painful work to do, you and I. 

"Please sit down," he said, and gestured toward the 
nearby chair. Jonas lowered himself onto the soft cushioned 
seat. 

The man closed his eyes and continued speaking. "When 
I became a Twelve, I was selected, as you were. I was 
frightened, as I'm sure you are." He opened his eyes for a 
moment and peered at Jonas, who nodded. 

The eyes closed again. "I came to this very room to 
begin my training. It was such a long time ago. 

"The previous Receiver seemed just as old to me as I do 
to you. He was just as tired as I am today." 

He sat forward suddenly, opened his eyes, and said, 
"You may ask questions. I have so little experience in de- 
scribing this process. It is forbidden to talk of it." 

"I know, sir. I have read the instructions," Jonas said. 

"So I may neglect to make things as clear as I should." 
The man chuckled. "My job is important and has enormous 
honor. But that does not mean I am perfect, and 


when I tried before to train a successor, I failed. Please ask 
any questions that will help you." 

In his mind, Jonas had questions. A thousand. A million 
questions. As many questions as there were books lining 
the walls. But he did not ask one, not yet. 

The man sighed, seeming to put his thoughts in order. 
Then he spoke again. "Simply stated," he said, "although 
it's not really simple at all, my job is to transmit to you all 
the memories I have within me. Memories of the past." 

"Sir," Jonas said tentatively, "I would be very interested 
to hear the story of your life, and to listen to your 
memories. 

"I apologize for interrupting," he added quickly. 

The man waved his hand impatiently. "No apologies in 
this room. We haven't time." 

"Well," Jonas went on, uncomfortably aware that he 
might be interrupting again, "I am really interested, I don't 
mean that I'm not. But I don't exactly understand why it's 
so important. I could do some adult job in the community, 
and in my recreation time I could come and listen to the 
stories from your childhood. I'd like that. Actually," he 
added, "I've done that already, in the House of the Old. 
The Old like to tell about their childhoods, and it's always 
fun to listen." 

The man shook his head. "No, no," he said. "I'm not 
being clear. It's not my past, not my childhood that I must 
transmit to you. 

He leaned back, resting his head against the back of the 
upholstered chair. "It's the memories of the whole world," 
he said with a sigh. "Before you, before me, before the 
previous Receiver, and generations before him." 

Jonas frowned. "The whole world?" he asked. "I don't 


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understand. Do you mean not just us? Not just the 
community? Do you mean Elsewhere, too?-" He tried, in 
his mind, to grasp the concept. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't under- 
stand exactly. Maybe I'm not smart enough. I don't know 
what you mean when you say 'the whole world' or 'gener- 
ations before him.' I thought there was only us. I thought 
there was only now." 

"There's much more. There's all that goes beyond — all 
that is Elsewhere — and all that goes back, and back, and 
back. I received all of those, when I was selected. And here 
in this room, all alone, I re-experience them again and again. 
It is how wisdom comes. And how we shape our future." 

He rested for a moment, breathing deeply. "I am so 
weighted with them," he said. 

Jonas felt a terrible concern for the man, suddenly. 

"It's as if ... " The man paused, seeming to search his 
mind for the right words of description. "It's like going 
downhill through deep snow on a sled," he said, finally. "At 
first it's exhilarating: the speed; the sharp, clear air; but 
then the snow accumulates, builds up on the runners, and 
you slow, you have to push hard to keep going, and — " 

He shook his head suddenly, and peered at Jonas. "That 
meant nothing to you, did it?" he asked. 

Jonas was confused. "I didn't understand it, sir." 

"Of course you didn't. You don't know what snow is, do 
you?" 

Jonas shook his head. 

"Or a sled? Runners?" 

"No, sir," Jonas said. 


"Downhill? The term means nothing to you?" 

"Nothing, sir." 

Well, it's a place to start. I'd been wondering how to 
begin. Move to the bed, and lie face down. Remove your 
tunic first." 

Jonas did so, a little apprehensively. Beneath his bare 
chest, he felt the soft folds of the magnificent cloth that 
covered the bed. He watched as the man rose and moved 
first to the wall where the speaker was. It was the same 
sort of speaker that occupied a place in every dwelling, but 
one thing about it was different. This one had a switch, 
which the man deftly snapped to the end that said OFF. 

Jonas almost gasped aloud. To have the power to turn 
the speaker off. It was an astonishing thing. 

Then the man moved with surprising quickness to the 
corner where the bed was. He sat on a chair beside Jonas, 
who was motionless, waiting for what would happen next. 

"Close your eyes. Relax. This will not be painful." 

Jonas remembered that he was allowed, that he had even 
been encouraged, to ask questions. "What are you going to 
do, sir?" he asked, hoping that his voice didn't betray his 
nervousness. 

"I am going to transmit the memory of snow," the old 
man said, and placed his hands on Jonas's bare back. 


78 


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11 


Jonas felt nothing unusual at first. He felt only the light 
touch of the old man's hands on his back. 

He tried to relax, to breathe evenly. The room was ab- 
solutely silent, and for a moment Jonas feared that he might 
disgrace himself now, on the first day of his training, by 
falling asleep. 

Then he shivered. He realized that the touch of the hands 
felt, suddenly, cold. At the same instant, breathing in, he felt 
the air change, and his very breath was cold. He licked his 
lips, and in doing so, his tongue touched the suddenly chilled 
air. 

It was very startling; but he was not at all frightened, 
now. He was filled with energy, and he breathed again, 
feeling the sharp intake of frigid air. Now, too, he could feel 
cold air swirling around his entire body. He felt it blow 
against his hands where they lay at his sides, and over his 
back. 

The touch of the man's hands seemed to have disap- 
peared. 

Now he became aware of an entirely new sensation: 
pinpricks? No, because they were soft and without pain. 
Tiny, cold, featherlike feelings peppered his body and face. 
He put out his tongue again, and caught one of the 


dots of cold upon it. It disappeared from his awareness in- 
stantly; but he caught another, and another. The sensation 
made him smile. 

One part of his consciousness knew that he was still lying 
there, on the bed, in the Annex room. Yet another, separate 
part of his being was upright now, in a sitting position, and 
beneath him he could feel that he was not on the soft 
decorated bedcovering at all, but rather seated on a flat, hard 
surface. His hands now held (though at the same time they 
were still motionless at his sides) a rough, damp rope. 

And he could see, though his eyes were closed. He could 
see a bright, whirling torrent of crystals in the air around 
him, and he could see them gather on the backs of his hands, 
like cold fur. 

His breath was visible. 

Beyond, through the swirl of what he now, somehow, 
perceived was the thing the old man had spoken of — snow 
— he could look out and down a great distance. He was up 
high someplace. The ground was thick with the furry snow, 
but he sat slightly above it on a hard, flat object. 

Sled, he knew abruptly. He was sitting on a thing called 
sled. And the sled itself seemed to be poised at the top of a 
long, extended mound that rose from the very land where he 
was. Even as he thought the word "mound," his new 
consciousness told him hill. 

Then the sled, with Jonas himself upon it, began to move 
through the snowfall, and he understood instantly that now 
he was going downhill. No voice made an explanation. The 
experience explained itself to him. 

His face cut through the frigid air as he began the de- 


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scent, moving through the substance called snow on the 
vehicle called sled, which propelled itself on what he now 
knew without doubt to be runners. 

Comprehending all of those things as he sped down- 
ward, he was free to enjoy the breathless glee that over- 
whelmed him: the speed, the clear cold air, the total silence, 
the feeling of balance and excitement and peace. 

Then, as the angle of incline lessened, as the mound — 
the hill — flattened, nearing the bottom, the sled's for-ward 
motion slowed. The snow was piled now around it, and he 
pushed with his body, moving it forward, not wanting the 
exhilarating ride to end. 

Finally the obstruction of the piled snow was too much 
for the thin runners of the sled, and he came to a stop. Fie 
sat there for a moment, panting, holding the rope in his cold 
hands. Tentatively he opened his eyes — not his snow-hill- 
sled eyes, for they had been open throughout the strange 
ride. Fie opened his ordinary eyes, and saw that he was still 
on the bed, that he had not moved at all. 

The old man, still beside the bed, was watching him. 
'Flow do you fee" he asked. 

Jonas sat up and tried to answer honestly. "Surprised," 
he said, after a moment. 

The old man wiped his forehead with his sleeve. 
"Whew," he said. "It was exhausting. But you know, even 
transmitting that tiny memory to you — I think it lightened 
me just a little." 

"Do you mean — you did say I could ask questions:" 
The man nodded, encouraging his question. 

"Do you mean that now you don't have the memory of it 
— of that ride on the sled — anymore?" 


"That's right. A little weight off this old body." 

"But it was such fun! And now you don't have it any- 
more! I took it from you!" 

But the old man laughed. "All I gave you was one ride, 
on one sled, in one snow, on one hill. I have a whole world 
of them in my memory. I could give them to you one by 
one, a thousand times, and there would still be more." 

"Are you saying that I — I mean we — could do it 
again?" Jonas asked. "I'd really like to. I think I could 
steer, by pulling the rope. I didn't try this time, because it 
was so new. 

The old man, laughing, shook his head. "Maybe an- 
other day, for a treat. But there's no time, really, just to 
play. I only wanted to begin by showing you how it works. 

"Now," he said, turning businesslike, "Lie back down. I 
want to — " 

Jonas did. He was eager for whatever experience would 
come next. But he had, suddenly, so many questions. 

"Why don't we have snow, and sleds, and hills.'" he 
asked. "And when did we, in the past? Did my parents have 
sleds when they were young? Did you?" 

The old man shrugged and gave a short laugh. "No," he 
told Jonas. "It's a very distant memory. That's why it was 
so exhausting — I had to tug it forward from many 
generations back. It was given to me when I was a new 
Receiver, and the previous Receiver had to pull it through a 
long time period, too." 

"But what happened to those things? Snow, and the rest 
of it?" 

"Climate Control. Snow made growing food difficult, 
limited the agricultural periods. And unpredictable weath- 


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er made transportation almost impossible at times. It wasn't 
a practical thing, so it became obsolete when we went to 
Sameness. 

"And hills, too," he added. "They made conveyance of 
goods unwieldy. Trucks; buses. Slowed them down. So — " 
He waved his hand, as if a gesture had caused hills to 
disappear. "Sameness," he concluded. 

Jonas frowned. "I wish we had those things, still. Just 
now and then." 

The old man smiled. "So do I" he said. "But that choice 
is not ours." 

"But sir," Jonas suggested, "since you have so much 
power — " 

The man corrected him. "Honor," he said firmly. "I have 
great honor. So will you. But you will find that that is not 
the same as power. 

"Lie quietly now. Since we've entered into the topic of 
climate, let me give you something else. And this time I'm 
not going to tell you the name of it, because I want to test 
the receiving. You should be able to perceive the name 
without being told. I gave away snow and sled and down- 
hill and runners by telling them to you in advance." 

Without being instructed, Jonas closed his eyes again. 
He felt the hands on his back again. He waited. 

Now it came more quickly, the feelings. This time the 
hands didn't become cold, but instead began to feel warm 
on his body. They moistened a little. The warmth spread, 
extending across his shoulders, up his neck, onto the side of 
his face. He could feel it through his clothed parts, too: a 
pleasant, all-over sensation; and when he licked his lips 
this time, the air was hot and heavy. 


He didn't move. There was no sled. His posture didn't 
change. He was simply alone someplace, out of doors, 
lying down, and the warmth came from far above. It was 
not as exciting as the ride through the snowy air; but it was 
pleasurable and comforting. 

Suddenly he perceived the word for it: sunshine. He 
perceived that it came from the sky. 

Then it ended. 

"Sunshine,” he said aloud, opening his eyes. 

"Good. You did get the word. That makes my job easier. 
Not so much explaining." 

"And it came from the sky." 

"That's right," the old man said. "Just the way it used to. 

"Before Sameness. Before Climate Control," Jonas 
added. 

The man laughed. "You receive well, and learn quickly. 
I'm very pleased with you. That's enough for today, I think. 
We're off to a good start." 

There was a question bothering Jonas. "Sir," he said, 
"The Chief Elder told me — she told everyone — and you 
told me, too, that it would be painful. So I was a little 
scared. But it didn't hurt at all. I really enjoyed it." He 
looked quizzically at the old man. 

The man sighed. "I started you with memories of pleas- 
ure. My previous failure gave me the wisdom to do that." 
He took a few deep breaths. "Jonas," he said, "it will be 
painful. But it need not be painful yet." 

"I'm brave. I really am." Jonas sat up a little straighten 
The old man looked at him for a moment. He smiled. 
"I can see that," he said. "Well, since you asked the ques- 


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tion — I think I have enough energy for one more trans- 
mission. 

"Lie down once more. This will be the last today." 

Jonas obeyed cheerfully. He closed his eyes, waiting, 
and felt the hands again; then he felt the warmth again, the 
sunshine again, coming from the sky of this other con- 
sciousness that was so new to him. This time, as he lay 
basking in the wonderful warmth, he felt the passage of 
time. His real self was aware that it was only a minute or 
two; but his other, memory-receiving self felt hours pass in 
the sun. His skin began to sting. Restlessly he moved one 
arm, bending it, and felt a sharp pain in the crease of his 
inner arm at the elbow. 

"Ouch," he said loudly, and shifted on the bed. 
"Owwww," he said, wincing at the shift, and even mm - ing 
his mouth to speak made his face hurt. 

He knew there was a word, but the pain kept him from 
grasping it. 

Then it ended. He opened his eyes, wincing with dis- 
comfort. "It hurt," he told the man, "and I couldn't get the 
word for it." 

"It was sunburn," the old man told him. 

"It hurt a lot, " Jonas said, "but I'm glad you gave it to 
me. It was interesting. And now I understand better, what it 
meant, that there would be pain." 

The man didn't respond. He sat silently for a second. 
Finally he said, "Get up, now. It's time for you to go home." 

They both walked to the center of the room. Jonas put 
his tunic back on. "Goodbye, sir," he said. "Thank you for 
my first day." 


The old man nodded to him. He looked drained, and a 
little sad. 

"Sir?" Jonas said shyly. 

"Yes? Do you have a question?-" 

"It's just that I don't know your name. I thought you were 
The Receiver, but you say that now I’m The Receiver. So I 
don't know what to call you." 

The man had sat back down in the comfortable uphol- 
stered chair. He moved his shoulders around as if to ease 
away an aching sensation. He seemed terribly weary. 

"Call me The Giver," he told Jonas. 


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12 


"You slept soundly, Jonas?" his mother asked at the 
morning meal. "No dreams?" 

Jonas simply smiled and nodded, not ready to lie, not 
willing to tell the truth. "I slept very soundly," he said. 

"I wish this one would," his father said, leaning down 
from his chair to touch Gabriel's waving fist. The basket 
was on the floor beside him; in its corner, beside Gabriel's 
head, the stuffed hippo sat staring with its blank eyes. 

"So do I," Mother said, rolling her eyes. "He's so fretful 
at night." 

Jonas had not heard the newchild during the night be- 
cause as always, he had slept soundly. But it was not true 
that he had no dreams. 

Again and again, as he slept, he had slid down that 
snow-covered hill. Always, in the dream, it seemed as if 
there were a destination: a something — he could not 
grasp what — that lay beyond the place where the 
thickness of snow brought the sled to a stop. 

He was left, upon awakening, with the feeling that he 
wanted, even somehow needed, to reach the something that 
waited in the distance. The feeling that it was good. That it 
was welcoming. That it was significant. 


But he did not know how to get there. 

He tried to shed the leftover dream, gathering his 
schoolwork and preparing for the day. 

School seemed a little different today. The classes were 
the same: language and communications; commerce and 
industry; science and technology; civil procedures and gov- 
ernment. But during the breaks for recreation periods and 
the midday meal, the other new Twelves were abuzz with 
descriptions of their first day of training. All of them talked 
at once, interrupting each other, hastily making the required 
apology for interrupting, then forgetting again in the 
excitement of describing the new experiences. 

Jonas listened. He was very aware of his own admoni- 
tion not to discuss his training. But it would have been im- 
possible, anyway. There was no way to describe to his 
friends what he had experienced there in the Annex room. 
How could you describe a sled without describing a hill and 
snow; and how could you describe a hill and snow to 
someone who had never felt height or wind or that feathery, 
magical cold? 

Even trained for years as they all had been in precision 
of language, what words could you use which would give 
another the experience of sunshine? 

So it was easy for Jonas to be still and to listen. 

After school hours he rode again beside Fiona to the 
House of the Old. 

"I looked for you yesterday," she told him, "so we could 
ride home together. Your bike was still there, and I waited 
for a little while. But it was getting late, so I went on 
home." 

"I apologize for making you wait," Jonas said. 


89 



"I accept your apology," she replied automatically. 

"I stayed a little longer than I expected," Jonas ex- 
plained. 

She pedaled forward silently, and he knew that she ex- 
pected him to tell her why. She expected him to describe 
his first day of training. But to ask would have fallen into 
the category of rudeness. 

"You've been doing so many volunteer hours with the 
Old," Jonas said, changing the subject. "There won't be 
much that you don't already know." 

"Oh, there's lots to learn," Fiona replied. "There's ad- 
ministrative work, and the dietary rules, and punishment 
for disobedience — did you know that they use a disci- 
pline wand on the Old, the same as for small children? 
And there's occupational therapy, and recreational activi- 
ties, and medications, and — " 

They reached the building and braked their bikes. 

"I really think I'll like it better than school," Fiona con- 
fessed. 

"Me too," Jonas agreed, wheeling his bike into its 
place. 

She waited for a second, as if, again, she expected him 
to go on. Then she looked at her watch, waved, and hurried 
toward the entrance. 

Jonas stood for a moment beside his bike, startled. It 
had happened again: the thing that he thought of now as 
"seeing beyond." This time it had been Fiona who had 
undergone that fleeting indescribable change. As he looked 
up and toward her going through the door, it happened; she 
changed. Actually, Jonas thought, trying to re-create it in 
his mind, it wasn't Fiona in her entirety. It 


seemed to be just her hair. And just for that flickering in- 
stant. 

He ran through it in his mind. It was clearly beginning to 
happen more often. First, the apple a few weeks before. The 
next time had been the faces in the audience at the 
Auditorium, just two days ago. Now, today, Fiona's hair. 

Frowning, Jonas walked toward the Annex. I will ask 
The Giver, he decided. 

The old man looked up, smiling, when Jonas entered the 
room. He was already seated beside the bed, and he seemed 
more energetic today, slightly renewed, and glad to see 
Jonas. 

"Welcome," he said. "We must get started. You're one 
minute late." 

"I apologi — " Jonas began, and then stopped, flustered, 
remembering there were to be no apologies. 

He removed his tunic and went to the bed. "I'm one 
minute late because something happened," he explained. 
"And I'd like to ask you about it, if you don't mind." 

You may ask me anything." 

Jonas tried to sort it out in his mind so that he could 
explain it clearly. "I think it's what you call seeing-beyond," 
he said. 

The Giver nodded. "Describe it," he said. 

Jonas told him about the experience with the apple. 
Then the moment on the stage, when he had looked out 
and seen the same phenomenon in the faces of the crowd. 
"Then today, just now, outside, it happened with my 
friend Fiona. She herself didn't change, exactly. But 
something about her changed for a second. Her hair looked 
different; but not in its shape, not in its length. I can't 


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quite — " Jonas paused, frustrated by his inability to grasp 
and describe exactly what had occurred. 

Finally he simply said, "It changed. I don't know how, or 
why. 

"That's why I was one minute late," he concluded, and 
looked questioningly at The Giver. 

To his surprise, the old man asked him a question which 
seemed unrelated to the seeing-beyond. "When I gave you 
the memory yesterday, the first one, the ride on the sled, 
did you look around?" 

Jonas nodded. "Yes," he said, "but the stuff — I mean 
the snow — in the air made it hard to see anything." "Did 
you look at the sled?" 

Jonas thought back. "No. I only felt it under me. I 
dreamed of it last night, too. But I don't remember seeing 
the sled in my dream, either. Just feeling it." 

The Giver seemed to be thinking. 

"When I was observing you, before the selection, I per- 
ceived that you probably had the capacity, and what you 
describe confirms that. It happened somewhat differently to 
me," The Giver told him. "When I was just your age — 
about to become the new Receiver — I began to experience 
it, though it took a different form. With me it was ... well, I 
won't describe that now; you wouldn't under-stand it yet. 

"But I think I can guess how it's happening with you. 
Let me just make a little test, to confirm my guess. Lie 
down." 

Jonas lay on the bed again with his hands at his sides. 
He felt comfortable here now. He closed his eyes and 
waited for the familiar feel of The Giver's hands on his 
back. 


But it didn't come. Instead, The Giver instructed him, 
"Call back the memory of the ride on the sled. Just the be- 
ginning of it, where you're at the top of the hill, before the 
slide starts. And this time, look down at the sled." 

Jonas was puzzled. He opened his eyes. "Excuse me," he 
asked politely, "but don't you have to give me the 
memory?" 

"It's your memory, now, It's not mine to experience any 
longer. I gave it away." 

"But how can I call it back?" 

"You can remember last year, or the year that you were 
a Seven, or a Five, can't you?" 

"Of course." 

"It's much the same. Everyone in the community has 
one-generation memories like those. But now you will be 
able to go back farther. Try. Just concentrate." 

Jonas closed his eyes again. He took a deep breath and 
sought the sled and the hill and the snow in his conscious- 
ness. 

There they were, with no effort. He was again sitting in 
that whirling world of snowflakes, atop the hill. 

Jonas grinned with delight, and blew his own steamy 
breath into view. Then, as he had been instructed, he 
looked down. He saw his own hands, furred again with 
snow, holding the rope. He saw his legs, and moved them 
aside for a glimpse of the sled beneath. 

Dumbfounded, he stared at it. This time it was not a 
fleeting impression. This time the sled had — and contin- 
ued to have, as he blinked, and stared at it again — that 
same mysterious quality that the apple had had so briefly. 
And Fiona's hair. The sled did not change. It simply was — 
whatever the thing was. 


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Jonas opened his eyes and was still on the bed. The 
Giver was watching him curiously. 

"Yes," Jonas said slowly. "I saw it, in the sled." 

"Let me try one more thing. Look over there, to the 
bookcase. Do you see the very top row of books, the ones 
behind the table, on the top shelf?" 

Jonas sought them with his eyes. He stared at them, and 
they changed. But the change was fleeting. It slipped away 
the next instant. 

"It happened," Jonas said. "It happened to the books, but 
it went away again." 

"I'm right, then," The Giver said. "You're beginning to 
see the color red." 

"The what?" 

The Giver sighed. "How to explain this? Once, back in 
the time of the memories, everything had a shape and size, 
the way things still do, but they also had a quality called 
color. 

"There were a lot of colors, and one of them was called 
red. That's the one you are starting to see. Your friend 
Fiona has red hair — quite distinctive, actually; I've noticed 
it before. When you mentioned Fiona's hair, it was the clue 
that told me you were probably beginning to see the color 
red." 

"And the faces of people? The ones I saw at the Cere- 
mony?" 

The Giver shook his head. "No, flesh isn't red. But it has 
red tones in it. There was a time, actually — you'll see this 
in the memories later — when flesh was many different 
colors. That was before we went to Sameness. Today flesh 
is all the same, and what you saw was the red tones. 


Probably when you saw the faces take on color it wasn't as 
deep or vibrant as the apple, or your friend's hair." 

The Giver chuckled, suddenly. "We've never completely 
mastered Sameness. I suppose the genetic scientists are still 
hard at work trying to work the kinks out. Hair like Fiona's 
must drive them crazy." 

Jonas listened, trying hard to comprehend. "And the 
sled?" he said. "It had that same thing: the color red. But it 
didn't change, Giver. It just was. " 

"Because it's a memory from the time when color was. " 
"It was so — oh, I wish language were more precise! The 
red was so beautiful!" 

The Giver nodded. "It is." 

"Do you see it all the time?" 

"I see all of them. All the colors." 

"Will I?" 

"Of course. When you receive the memories. You have 
the capacity to see beyond. You'll gain wisdom, then, along 
with colors. And lots more." 

Jonas wasn't interested, just then, in wisdom. It was the 
colors that fascinated him. "Why can't everyone see them? 
Why did colors disappear?" 

The Giver shrugged. "Our people made that choice, the 
choice to go to Sameness. Before my time, before the 
previous time, back and back and back. We relinquished 
color when we relinquished sunshine and did away with 
differences." He thought for a moment. "We gained control 
of many things. But we had to let go of others." 

"We shouldn't have!" Jonas said fiercely. 

The Giver looked startled at the certainty of Jonas's re- 
action. Then he smiled wryly. "You've come very quickly 


94 


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to that conclusion," he said. "It took me many years. Maybe 
your wisdom will come much more quickly than mine." 

He glanced at the wall clock. "Lie back down, now. We 
have so much to do." 

"Giver," Jonas asked as he arranged himself again on the 
bed, "how did it happen to you when you were be-coming 
The Receiver? You said that the seeing-beyond happened to 
you, but not the same way." 

The hands came to his back. "Another day," The Giver 
said gently. "I'll tell you another day. Now we must work. 
And I've thought of a way to help you with the concept of 
color. 

"Close your eyes and be still, now. I'm going to give you 
a memory of a rainbow." 


13 


Days went by, and weeks. Jonas learned, through the 
memories, the names of colors; and now he began to see 
them all, in his ordinary life (though he knew it was ordi- 
nary no longer, and would never be again). But they didn't 
last. There would be a glimpse of green — the landscaped 
lawn around the Central Plaza; a bush on the riverbank. The 
bright orange of pumpkins being trucked in from the 
agricultural fields beyond the community boundary — seen 
in an instant, the flash of brilliant color, but gone again, 
returning to their flat and hueless shade. 

The Giver told him that it would be a very long time 
before he had the colors to keep. 

"But I want them!" Jonas said angrily. "It isn't fair that 
nothing has color!" 

"Not fair?" The Giver looked at Jonas curiously. "Ex- 
plain what you mean." 

"Well ...” Jonas had to stop and think it through. "If 
everything's the same, then there aren't any choices! I want 
to wake up in the morning and decide things! A blue tunic, 
or a red one?" 

He looked down at himself, at the colorless fabric of his 
clothing. "But it's all the same, always." 


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Then he laughed a little. "I know it's not important, what 
you wear. It doesn't matter. But — 

"It's the choosing that's important, isn't it?" The Giver 
asked him. 

Jonas nodded. "My little brother — " he began, and then 
corrected himself. "No, that's inaccurate. He's not my 
brother, not really. But this newchild that my family takes 
care of — his name's Gabriel?" 

"Yes, I know about Gabriel." 

"Well, he's right at the age where he's learning so much. 
He grabs toys when we hold them in front of him — my 
father says he's learning small-muscle control. And he's 
really cute." 

The Giver nodded. 

"But now that I can see colors, at least sometimes, I was 
just thinking: what if we could hold up things that were 
bright red, or bright yellow, and he could choose? Instead 
of the Sameness." 

"He might make wrong choices." 

"Oh." Jonas was silent for a minute. "Oh, I see what you 
mean. It wouldn't matter for a newchild's toy. But later it 
does matter, doesn't it? We don't dare to let people make 
choices of their own." 

"Not safe?" The Giver suggested. 

"Definitely not safe," Jonas said with certainty. "What if 
they were allowed to choose their own mate? And chose 
wrong? 

"Or what if," he went on, almost laughing at the ab- 
surdity, "they chose their own jobs? " 

"Frightening, isn't it?" The Giver said. 

Jonas chuckled. "Very frightening. I can't even imagine 
it. We really have to protect people from wrong choices." 


"It's safer." 

"Yes," Jonas agreed. "Much safer." 

But when the conversation turned to other things, Jonas 
was left, still, with a feeling of frustration that he didn't 
understand. 

He found that he was often angry, now: irrationally 
angry at his groupmates, that they were satisfied with their 
lives which had none of the vibrance his own was taking 
on. And he was angry at himself, that he could not change 
that for them. 

He tried. Without asking permission from The Giver, 
because he feared — or knew — that it would be denied, he 
tried to give his new awareness to his friends. 

"Asher," Jonas said one morning, "look at those flowers 
very carefully." They were standing beside a bed of 
geraniums planted near the Hall of Open Records. He put 
his hands on Asher's shoulders, and concentrated on the red 
of the petals, trying to hold it as long as he could, and 
trying at the same time to transmit the awareness of red to 
his friend. 

"What's the matter?" Asher asked uneasily. "Is some- 
thing wrong?" He moved away from Jonas's hands. It was 
extremely rude for one citizen to touch another outside of 
family units. 

"No, nothing. I thought for a minute that they were 
wilting, and we should let the Gardening Crew know they 
needed more watering." Jonas sighed, and turned away. 

One evening he came home from his training weighted 
with new knowledge. The Giver had chosen a startling and 
disturbing memory that day. Under the touch of his hands, 
Jonas had found himself suddenly in a place that was 
completely alien: hot and windswept under a vast 


98 


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blue sky. There were tufts of sparse grass, a few bushes 
and rocks, and nearby he could see an area of thicker vege- 
tation: broad, low trees outlined against the sky. He could 
hear noises: the sharp crack of weapons — he perceived 
the word guns — and then shouts, and an immense crashing 
thud as something fell, tearing branches from the trees. 

He heard voices calling to one another. Peering from the 
place where he stood hidden behind some shrubbery, he 
was reminded of what The Giver had told him, that there 
had been a time when flesh had different colors. Two of 
these men had dark brown skin; the others were light. 
Going closer, he watched them hack the tusks from a mo- 
tionless elephant on the ground and haul them away, 
spattered with blood. He felt himself overwhelmed with a 
new perception of the color he knew as red. 

Then the men were gone, speeding toward the horizon 
in a vehicle that spit pebbles from its whirling tires. One 
hit his forehead and stung him there. But the memory 
continued, though Jonas ached now for it to end. 

Now he saw another elephant emerge from the place 
where it had stood hidden in the trees. Very slowly it 
walked to the mutilated body and looked down. With its 
sinuous trunk it stroked the huge corpse; then it reached 
up, broke some leafy branches with a snap, and draped 
them over the mass of torn thick flesh. 

Finally it tilted its massive head, raised its trunk, and 
roared into the empty landscape. Jonas had never heard 
such a sound. It was a sound of rage and grief and it 
seemed never to end. 

He could still hear it when he opened his eyes and lay 
anguished on the bed where he received the memories. It 


continued to roar into his consciousness as he pedaled 
slowly home. 

"Lily," he asked that evening when his sister took her 
comfort object, the stuffed elephant, from the shelf, "did 
you know that once there really were elephants? Live 
ones?" 

She glanced down at the ragged comfort object and 
grinned. "Right," she said, skeptically. "Sure, Jonas." 

Jonas went and sat beside them while his father untied 
Lily's hair ribbons and combed her hair. He placed one hand 
on each of their shoulders. With all of his being he tried to 
give each of them a piece of the memory: not of the tortured 
cry of the elephant, but of the being of the elephant, of the 
towering, immense creature and the meticulous touch with 
which it had tended its friend at the end. 

But his father had continued to comb Lily's long hair, 
and Lily, impatient, had finally wiggled under her brother's 
touch. "Jonas," she said, "you're hurting me with your 
hand." 

"I apologize for hurting you, Lily," Jonas mumbled, and 
took his hand away. 

" 'Ccept your apology," Lily responded indifferently, 
stroking the lifeless elephant. 

"Giver," Jonas asked once, as they prepared for the day's 
work, "don't you have a spouse? Aren't you allowed to 
apply for one?" Although he was exempted from the rules 
against rudeness, he was aware that this was a rude ques- 
tion. But The Giver had encouraged all of his questions, not 
seeming to be embarrassed or offended by even the most 
personal. 

The Giver chuckled. "No, there's no rule against it. 


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And I did have a spouse. You're forgetting how old I am, 
Jonas. My former spouse lives now with the Childless 
Adults." 

"Oh, of course." Jonas had forgotten The Giver's obvious 
age. When adults of the community became older, their 
lives became different. They were no longer needed to 
create family units. Jonas's own parents, when he and Lily 
were grown, would go to live with the Childless Adults. 

"You'll be able to apply for a spouse, Jonas, if you want 
to. I'll warn you, though, that it will be difficult. Your liv- 
ing arrangements will have to be different from those of 
most family units, because the books are forbidden to citi- 
zens. You and I are the only ones with access to the books." 

Jonas glanced around at the astonishing array of vol- 
umes. From time to time, now, he could see their colors. 
With their hours together, his and The Giver's, consumed by 
conversation and by the transmission of memories, Jonas 
had not yet opened any of the books. But he read the titles 
here and there, and knew that they contained all of the 
knowledge of centuries, and that one day they would belong 
to him. 

"So if I have a spouse, and maybe children, I will have to 
hide the books from them?" 

The Giver nodded. "I wasn't permitted to share the books 
with my spouse, that's correct. And there are other 
difficulties, too. You remember the rule that says the new 
Receiver can't talk about his training?" 

Jonas nodded. Of course he remembered. It had turned 
out, by far, to be the most frustrating of the rules he was 
required to obey. 


"When you become the official Receiver, when we're 
finished here, you'll be given a whole new set of rules. 
Those are the rules that I obey. And it won't surprise you 
that I am forbidden to talk about my work to anyone except 
the new Receiver. That's you, of course. 

"So there will be a whole part of your life which you 
won't be able to share with a family. It's hard, Jonas. It was 
hard for me. 

"You do understand, don't you, that this is my life? The 
memories?" 

Jonas nodded again, but he was puzzled. Didn't life 
consist of the things you did each day? There wasn't any- 
thing else, really. "I've seen you taking walks," he said. 

The Giver sighed. "I walk. I eat at mealtime. And when I 
am called by the Committee of Elders, I appear before 
them, to give them counsel and advice." 

"Do you advise them often?" Jonas was a little fright- 
ened at the thought that one day he would be the one to 
advise the ruling body. 

But The Giver said no. "Rarely. Only when they are 
faced with something that they have not experienced be- 
fore. Then they call upon me to use the memories and ad- 
vise them. But it very seldom happens. Sometimes I wish 
they'd ask for my wisdom more often — there are so many 
things I could tell them; things I wish they would change. 
But they don't want change. Life here is so orderly, so 
predictable — so painless. It's what they've chosen. 

"I don't know why they even need a Receiver, then, if 
they never call upon him," Jonas commented. 

"They need me. And you," The Giver said, but didn't 
explain. "They were reminded of that ten years ago." 


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"What happened ten years ago?" Jonas asked. "Oh, I 
know. You tried to train a successor and it failed. Why? 
Why did that remind them?" 

The Giver smiled grimly. "When the new Receiver 
failed, the memories that she had received were released. 
They didn't come back to me. They went ..." 

He paused, and seemed to be struggling with the concept. 
"I don't know, exactly. They went to the place where 
memories once existed before Receivers were created. 
Someplace out there — " He gestured vaguely with his arm. 
"And then the people had access to them. Apparently that's 
the way it was, once. Everyone had access to memories. 

"It was chaos," he said. "They really suffered for a while. 
Finally it subsided as the memories were assimilated. But it 
certainly made them aware of how they need a Receiver to 
contain all that pain. And knowledge." 

"But you have to suffer like that all the time," Jonas 
pointed out. 

The Giver nodded. "And you will. It's my life. It will be 
yours." 

Jonas thought about it, about what it would be like for 
him. "Along with walking and eating and — " He looked 
around the walls of books. "Reading? That's it?" 

The Giver shook his head. "Those are simply the things 
that I do, My life is here." 

"In this room?" 

The Giver shook his head. He put his hands to his own 
face, to his chest. "No. Here, in my being. Where the 
memories are." 

"My Instructors in science and technology have taught 


us about how the brain works," Jonas told him eagerly. "It's 
full of electrical impulses. It's like a computer. If you 
stimulate one part of the brain with an electrode, it — " He 
stopped talking. He could see an odd look on The Giver's 
face. 

"They know nothing," The Giver said bitterly. 

Jonas was shocked. Since the first day in the Annex 
room, they had together disregarded the rules about rude- 
ness, and Jonas felt comfortable with that now. But this 
was different, and far beyond rude. This was a terrible ac- 
cusation. What if someone had heard? 

He glanced quickly at the wall speaker, terrified that the 
Committee might be listening as they could at any time. 
But, as always during their sessions together, the switch 
had been turned to OFF. 

"Nothing?" Jonas whispered nervously. "But my in- 
structors — " 

The Giver flicked his hand as if brushing something 
aside. "Oh, your instructors are well trained. They know 
their scientific facts. Everyone is well trained for his job. 

"It's just that . . . without the memories it's all mean- 
ingless. They gave that burden to me. And to the previous 
Receiver. And the one before him." 

"And back and back and back," Jonas said, knowing the 
phrase that always came. 

The Giver smiled, though his smile was oddly harsh. 
"That's right. And next it will be you. A great honor." 

"Yes, sir. They told me that at the Ceremony. The very 
highest honor." 

Some afternoons The Giver sent him away without training. 
Jonas knew, on days when he arrived to find The 


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Giver hunched over, rocking his body slightly back and 
forth, his face pale, that he would be sent away. 

"Go," The Giver would tell him tensely. "I'm in pain 
today. Come back tomorrow." 

On those days, worried and disappointed, Jonas would 
walk alone beside the river. The paths were empty of peo- 
ple except for the few Delivery Crews and Landscape 
Workers here and there. Small children were all at the 
Childcare Center after school, and the older ones busy with 
volunteer hours or training. 

By himself, he tested his own developing memory. He 
watched the landscape for glimpses of the green that he 
knew was embedded in the shrubbery; when it came flick- 
ering into his consciousness, he focused upon it, keeping it 
there, darkening it, holding it in his vision as long as possi- 
ble until his head hurt and he let it fade away. 

He stared at the flat, colorless sky, bringing blue from it, 
and remembered sunshine until finally, for an instant, he 
could feel warmth. 

He stood at the foot of the bridge that spanned the river, 
the bridge that citizens were allowed to cross only on 
official business. Jonas had crossed it on school trips, visit- 
ing the outlying communities, and he knew that the land 
beyond the bridge was much the same, flat and well or- 
dered, with fields for agriculture. The other communities 
he had seen on visits were essentially the same as his own, 
the only differences were slightly altered styles of dwell- 
ings, slightly different schedules in the schools. 

He wondered what lay in the far distance where he had 
never gone. The land didn't end beyond those nearby com- 
munities. Were there hills Elsewhere? Were there vast 


wind-tom areas like the place he had seen in memory, the 
place where the elephant died? 

"Giver," he asked one afternoon following a day when he 
had been sent away, "what causes you pain?" 

When The Giver was silent, Jonas continued. "The Chief 
Elder told me, at the beginning, that the receiving of 
memory causes terrible pain. And you described for me that 
the failure of the last new Receiver released painful 
memories to the community. 

"But I haven't suffered, Giver. Not really." Jonas smiled. 
"Oh, I remember the sunburn you gave me on the very first 
day. But that wasn't so terrible. What is it that makes you 
suffer so much? If you gave some of it to me, maybe your 
pain would be less." 

The Giver nodded. "Lie down," he said. "It's time, I 
suppose. I can't shield you forever. You'll have to take it all 
on eventually. 

"Let me think," he went on, when Jonas was on the bed, 
waiting, a little fearful. 

"All right," The Giver said after a moment, "I've de- 
cided. We'll start with something familiar. Let's go once 
again to a hill, and a sled." 

He placed his hands on Jonas's back. 


106 


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14 


It was much the same, this memory, though the hill seemed 
to be a different one, steeper, and the snow was not falling 
as thickly as it had before. 

It was colder, also, Jonas perceived. He could see, as he 
sat waiting at the top of the hill, that the snow beneath the 
sled was not thick and soft as it had been before, but hard, 
and coated with bluish ice. 

The sled moved forward, and Jonas grinned with de- 
light, looking forward to the breathtaking slide down 
through the invigorating air. 

But the runners, this time, couldn't slice through the 
frozen expanse as they had on the other, snow-cushioned 
hill. They skittered sideways and the sled gathered speed. 
Jonas pulled at the rope, trying to steer, but the steepness 
and speed took control from his hands and he was no 
longer enjoying the feeling of freedom but instead, terri- 
fied, was at the mercy of the wild acceleration downward 
over the ice. 

Sideways, spinning, the sled hit a bump in the hill and 
Jonas was jarred loose and thrown violently into the air. He 
fell with his leg twisted under him, and could hear the 
crack of bone. His face scraped along jagged edges of ice 


and when he came, at last, to a stop, he lay shocked and 
still, feeling nothing at first but fear. 

Then, the first wave of pain. He gasped. It was as if a 
hatchet lay lodged in his leg, slicing through each nerve 
with a hot blade. In his agony he perceived the word "fire" 
and felt flames licking at the tom bone and flesh. He tried 
to move, and could not. The pain grew. 

He screamed. There was no answer. 

Sobbing, he turned his head and vomited onto the frozen 
snow. Blood dripped from his face into the vomit. 

"NOOOOO!" he cried, and the sound disappeared into 
the empty landscape, into the wind. 

Then, suddenly, he was in the Annex room again, 
writhing on the bed. His face was wet with tears. 

Able to move now, he rocked his own body back and 
forth, breathing deeply to release the remembered pain. 

He sat, and looked at his own leg, where it lay straight 
on the bed, unbroken. The brutal slice of pain was gone. 
But the leg ached horribly, still, and his face felt raw. 

"May I have relief-of-pain, please?" he begged. It was 
always provided in his everyday life for the bruises and 
wounds, for a mashed finger, a stomach ache, a skinned 
knee from a fall from a bike. There was always a daub of 
anesthetic ointment, or a pill; or in severe instances, an in- 
jection that brought complete and instantaneous deliver- 
ance. 

But The Giver said no, and looked away. 

Limping, Jonas walked home, pushing his bicycle, that 
evening. The sunburn pain had been so small, in 
comparison, and had not stayed with him. But this ache 
lingered. 


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It was not unendurable, as the pain on the hill had been. 
Jonas tried to be brave. He remembered that the Chief Elder 
had said he was brave. 

"Is something wrong, Jonas?" his father asked at the 
evening meal. "You're so quiet tonight. Aren't you feeling 
well? Would you like some medication?" 

But Jonas remembered the rules. No medication for 
anything related to his training. 

And no discussion of his training. At the time for shar- 
ing-of-feelings, he simply said that he felt tired, that his 
school lessons had been unusually demanding that day. 

He went to his sleepingroom early, and from behind the 
closed door he could hear his parents and sister laughing as 
they gave Gabriel his evening bath. 

They have never known pain, he thought. The realiza- 
tion made him feel desperately lonely, and he rubbed his 
throbbing leg. He eventually slept. Again and again he 
dreamed of the anguish and the isolation on the forsaken 
hill. 

The daily training continued, and now it always included 
pain. The agony of the fractured leg began to seem no more 
than a mild discomfort as The Giver led Jonas firmly, little 
by little, into the deep and terrible suffering of the past. 
Each time, in his kindness, The Giver ended the afternoon 
with a color-filled memory of pleasure: a brisk sail on a 
blue-green lake; a meadow dotted with yellow wildflowers; 
an orange sunset behind mountains. 

It was not enough to assuage the pain that Jonas was 
beginning, now, to know. 

"Why?" Jonas asked him after he had received a tortur- 
ous memory in which he had been neglected and unfed; 


the hunger had caused excruciating spasms in his empty, 
distended stomach. He lay on the bed, aching. "Why do you 
and I have to hold these memories?" 

"It gives us wisdom," The Giver replied. "Without 
wisdom I could not fulfill my function of advising the 
Committee of Elders when they call upon me." 

"But what wisdom do you get from hunger?" Jonas 
groaned. His stomach still hurt, though the memory had 
ended. 

"Some years ago," The Giver told him, "before your 
birth, a lot of citizens petitioned the Committee of Elders. 
They wanted to increase the rate of births. They wanted 
each Birthmother to be assigned four births instead of three, 
so that the population would increase and there would be 
more Laborers available." 

Jonas nodded, listening. "That makes sense." 

"The idea was that certain family units could accom- 
modate an additional child." 

Jonas nodded again. "Mine could," he pointed out. "We 
have Gabriel this year, and it's fun, having a third child." 

"The Committee of Elders sought my advice," The Giver 
said. "It made sense to them, too, but it was a new idea, and 
they came to me for wisdom." 

"And you used your memories?" 

The Giver said yes. "And the strongest memory that 
came was hunger. It came from many generations back. 
Centuries back. The population had gotten so big that 
hunger was everywhere. Excruciating hunger and starva- 
tion. It was followed by warfare." 

Warfare? It was a concept Jonas did not know. But 
hunger was familiar to him now. Unconsciously he rubbed 


110 


111 



his own abdomen, recalling the pain of its unfulfilled 
needs. "So you described that to them?" 

"They don't want to hear about pain. They just seek the 
advice. I simply advised them against increasing the 
population." 

"But you said that that was before my birth. They hardly 
ever come to you for advice. Only when they — what was 
it you said? When they have a problem they've never 
faced before. When did it happen last?" 

"Do you remember the day when the plane flew over the 
community?" 

"Yes. I was scared." 

"So were they. They prepared to shoot it down. But they 
sought my advice. I told them to wait." 

"But how did you know? How did you know the pilot 
was lost?" 

"I didn't. I used my wisdom, from the memories. I knew 
that there had been times in the past — terrible times — 
when people had destroyed others in haste, in fear, and 
had brought about their own destruction." 

Jonas realized something. "That means," he said slowly, 
"that you have memories of destruction. And you have to 
give them to me, too, because I have to get the wisdom." 

The Giver nodded. 

"But it will hurt," Jonas said. It wasn't a question. 

"It will hurt terribly," The Giver agreed. 

"But why can't everyone have the memories? I think it 
would seem a little easier if the memories were shared. You 
and I wouldn't have to bear so much by ourselves, if eve- 
rybody took a part." 


The Giver sighed. "You're right," he said. "But then 
everyone would be burdened and pained. They don't want 
that. And that's the real reason The Receiver is so vital to 
them, and so honored. They selected me — and you — to 
lift that burden from themselves." 

"When did they decide that?" Jonas asked angrily. "It 
wasn't fair. Let's change it!" 

"How do you suggest we do that? I've never been able to 
think of a way, and I'm supposed to be the one with all the 
wisdom." 

"But there are two of us now," Jonas said eagerly. "To- 
gether we can think of something!" 

The Giver watched him with a wry smile. 

"Why can't we just apply for a change of rules?" Jonas 
suggested. 

The Giver laughed; then Jonas, too, chuckled reluc- 
tantly. 

"The decision was made long before my time or yours," 
The Giver said, "and before the previous Receiver, and — " 
He waited. 

"Back and back and back." Jonas repeated the familiar 
phrase. Sometimes it had seemed humorous to him. 
Sometimes it had seemed meaningful and important. 

Now it was ominous. It meant, he knew, that nothing 
could be changed. 

The newchild, Gabriel, was growing, and successfully 
passed the tests of maturity that the Nurturers gave each 
month; he could sit alone, now, could reach for and grasp 
small play objects, and he had six teeth. During the day- 
time hours, Father reported, he was cheerful and seemed 


112 


113 



of normal intelligence. But he remained fretful at night, 
whimpering often, needing frequent attention. 

"After all this extra time I've put in with him," Father 
said one evening after Gabriel had been bathed and was 
lying, for the moment, hugging his hippo placidly in the 
small crib that had replaced the basket, "I hope they're not 
going to decide to release him." 

"Maybe it would be for the best," Mother suggested. "I 
know you don't mind getting up with him at night. But the 
lack of sleep is awfully hard for me." 

"If they release Gabriel, can we get another newchild as 
a visitor?" asked Lily. She was kneeling beside the crib, 
making funny faces at the little one, who was smiling back 
at her. 

Jonas's mother rolled her eyes in dismay. 

"No," Father said, smiling. He ruffled Lily's hair. "It's 
very rare, anyway, that a newchild's status is as uncertain 
as Gabriel's. It probably won't happen again, for a long 
time. 

"Anyway," he sighed, "they won't make the decision for 
a while. Right now we're all preparing for a release we'll 
probably have to make very soon. There's a Birth-mother 
who's expecting twin males next month." 

"Oh, dear," Mother said, shaking her head. "If they're 
identical, I hope you're not the one assigned — " 

"I am. I'm next on the list. I'll have to select the one to 
be nurtured, and the one to be released. It's usually not 
hard, though. Usually it's just a matter of birthweight. We 
release the smaller of the two." 

Jonas, listening, thought suddenly about the bridge and 
how, standing there, he had wondered what lay Elsewhere. 


Was there someone there, waiting, who would receive the 
tiny released twin? Would it grow up Elsewhere, not 
knowing, ever, that in this community lived a being who 
looked exactly the same? 

For a moment he felt a tiny, fluttering hope that he knew 
was quite foolish. He hoped that it would be Larissa, 
waiting. Larissa, the old woman he had bathed. He 
remembered her sparkling eyes, her soft voice, her low 
chuckle. Fiona had told him recently that Larissa had been 
released at a wonderful ceremony. 

But he knew that the Old were not given children to 
raise. Larissa's life Elsewhere would be quiet and serene as 
befit the Old; she would not welcome the responsibility of 
nurturing a newchild who needed feeding and care, and 
would likely cry at night. 

"Mother? Father?" he said, the idea coming to him un- 
expectedly, "why don't we put Gabriel's crib in my room 
tonight? I know how to feed and comfort him, and it would 
let you and Father get some sleep." 

Father looked doubtful. "You sleep so soundly, Jonas. 
What if his restlessness didn't wake you?" 

It was Lily who answered that. "If no one goes to tend 
Gabriel," she pointed out, "he gets very loud. He'd wake all 
of us, if Jonas slept through it." 

Father laughed. "You're right, Lily-billy. All right, 
Jonas, let's try it, just for tonight. I'll take the night off and 
we'll let Mother get some sleep, too." 

Gabriel slept soundly for the earliest part of the night. 
Jonas, in his bed, lay awake for a while; from time to time 
he raised himself on one elbow, looking over at the crib. 


114 


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The newchild was on his stomach, his arms relaxed beside 
his head, his eyes closed, and his breathing regular and un- 
disturbed. Finally Jonas slept too. 

Then, as the middle hours of the night approached, the 
noise of Gabe's restlessness woke Jonas. The newchild was 
turning under his cover, flailing his arms, and beginning to 
whimper. 

Jonas rose and went to him. Gently he patted Gabriel's 
back. Sometimes that was all it took to lull him back to 
sleep. But the newchild still squirmed fretfully under his 
hand. 

Still patting rhythmically, Jonas began to remember the 
wonderful sail that The Giver had given him not long be- 
fore: a bright, breezy day on a clear turquoise lake, and 
above him the white sail of the boat billowing as he moved 
along in the brisk wind. 

He was not aware of giving the memory; but suddenly he 
realized that it was becoming dimmer, that it was sliding 
through his hand into the being of the newchild. Gabriel 
became quiet. Startled, Jonas pulled back what was left of 
the memory with a burst of will. He removed his hand from 
the little back and stood quietly beside the crib. 

To himself, he called the memory of the sail forward 
again. It was still there, but the sky was less blue, the gentle 
motion of the boat slower, the water of the lake more murky 
and clouded. He kept it for a while, soothing his own 
nervousness at what had occurred, then let it go and 
returned to his bed. 

Once more, toward dawn, the newchild woke and cried 
out. Again Jonas went to him. This time he quite deliber- 
ately placed his hand firmly on Gabriel's back, and re- 


leased the rest of the calming day on the lake. Again Ga- 
briel slept. 

But now Jonas lay awake, thinking. He no longer had 
any more than a wisp of the memory, and he felt a small 
lack where it had been. He could ask The Giver for an-other 
sail, he knew. A sail perhaps on ocean, next time, for Jonas 
had a memory of ocean, now, and knew what it was; he 
knew that there were sailboats there, too, in memories yet 
to be acquired. 

He wondered, though, if he should confess to The Giver 
that he had given a memory away. He was not yet qualified 
to be a Giver himself; nor had Gabriel been selected to be a 
Receiver. 

That he had this power frightened him. He decided not 
to tell. 


116 


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15 


Jonas entered the Annex room and realized immediately 
that it was a day when he would be sent away. The Giver 
was rigid in his chair, his face in his hands. 

"I'll come back tomorrow, sir," he said quickly. Then he 
hesitated. "Unless maybe there's something I can do to 
help." 

The Giver looked up at him, his face contorted with 
suffering. "Please," he gasped, "take some of the pain." 

Jonas helped him to his chair at the side of the bed. Then 
he quickly removed his tunic and lay face down. "Put your 
hands on me," he directed, aware that in such anguish The 
Giver might need reminding. 

The hands came, and the pain came with them and 
through them. Jonas braced himself and entered the mem- 
ory which was torturing The Giver. 

He was in a confused, noisy, foul-smelling place. It was 
daylight, early morning, and the air was thick with smoke 
that hung, yellow and brown, above the ground. Around 
him, everywhere, far across the expanse of what seemed to 
be a field, lay groaning men. A wild-eyed horse, its bridle 
torn and dangling, trotted frantically through the mounds of 
men, tossing its head, whinnying in panic. It stumbled, 
finally, then fell, and did not rise. 


Jonas heard a voice next to him. "Water," the voice said 
in a parched, croaking whisper. 

He turned his head toward the voice and looked into the 
half-closed eyes of a boy who seemed not much older than 
himself. Dirt streaked the boy's face and his matted blond 
hair. He lay sprawled, his gray uniform glistening with wet, 
fresh blood. 

The colors of the carnage were grotesquely bright: the 
crimson wetness on the rough and dusty fabric, the ripped 
shreds of grass, startlingly green, in the boy's yellow hair. 

The boy stared at him. "Water," he begged again. When 
he spoke, a new spurt of blood drenched the coarse cloth 
across his chest and sleeve. 

One of Jonas's arms was immobilized with pain, and he 
could see through his own torn sleeve something that 
looked like ragged flesh and splintery bone. He tried his 
remaining arm and felt it move. Slowly he reached to his 
side, felt the metal container there, and removed its cap, 
stopping the small motion of his hand now and then to wait 
for the surging pain to ease. Finally, when the container 
was open, he extended his arm slowly across the blood- 
soaked earth, inch by inch, and held it to the lips of the 
boy. Water trickled into the imploring mouth and down the 
grimy chin. 

The boy sighed. His head fell back, his lower jaw drop- 
ping as if he had been surprised by something. A dull 
blankness slid slowly across his eyes. He was silent. 

But the noise continued all around: the cries of the 
wounded men, the cries begging for water and for Mother 
and for death. Horses lying on the ground shrieked, raised 
their heads, and stabbed randomly toward the sky with their 
hooves. 


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From the distance, Jonas could hear the thud of cannons. 
Overwhelmed by pain, he lay there in the fearsome stench 
for hours, listened to the men and animals die, and learned 
what warfare meant. 

Finally, when he knew that he could bear it no longer 
and would welcome death himself, he opened his eyes and 
was once again on the bed. 

The Giver looked away, as if he could not bear to see 
what he had done to Jonas. "Forgive me," he said. 


16 


Jonas did not want to go back. He didn't want the memo- 
ries, didn't want the honor, didn't want the wisdom, didn't 
want the pain. He wanted his childhood again, his scraped 
knees and ball games. He sat in his dwelling alone, 
watching through the window, seeing children at play, 
citizens bicycling home from uneventful days at work, 
ordinary lives free of anguish because he had been selected, 
as others before him had, to bear their burden. 

But the choice was not his. He returned each day to the 
Annex room. 

The Giver was gentle with him for many days following 
the terrible shared memory of war. 

"There are so many good memories," The Giver re- 
minded Jonas. And it was true. By now Jonas had experi- 
enced countless bits of happiness, things he had never 
known of before. 

He had seen a birthday parry, with one child singled out 
and celebrated on his day, so that now he understood the 
joy of being an individual, special and unique and proud. 

He had visited museums and seen paintings filled with 
all the colors he could now recognize and name. 


120 


121 



In one ecstatic memory he had ridden a gleaming brown 
horse across a field that smelled of damp grass, and had 
dismounted beside a small stream from which both he and 
the horse drank cold, clear water. Now he understood about 
animals; and in the moment that the horse turned from the 
stream and nudged Jonas's shoulder affectionately with its 
head, he perceived the bonds between animal and human. 

He had walked through woods, and sat at night beside a 
campfire. Although he had through the memories learned 
about the pain of loss and loneliness, now he gained, too, 
an understanding of solitude and its joy. 

"What is your favorite?" Jonas asked The Giver. "You 
don't have to give it away yet," he added quickly. "Just tell 
me about it, so I can look forward to it, because I'll have to 
receive it when your job is done." 

The Giver smiled. "Lie down," he said. "I'm happy to 
give it to you." 

Jonas felt the joy of it as soon as the memory began. 
Sometimes it took a while for him to get his bearings, to 
find his place. But this time he fit right in and felt the hap- 
piness that pervaded the memory. 

He was in a room filled with people, and it was warm, 
with firelight glowing on a hearth. He could see through a 
window that outside it was night, and snowing. There were 
colored lights: red and green and yellow, twinkling from a 
tree which was, oddly, inside the room. On a table, lighted 
candles stood in a polished golden holder and cast a soft, 
flickering glow. He could smell things cooking, and he 
heard soft laughter. A golden-haired dog lay sleeping on 
the floor. 


On the floor there were packages wrapped in brightly 
colored paper and tied with gleaming ribbons. As Jonas 
watched, a small child began to pick up the packages and 
pass them around the room: to other children, to adults who 
were obviously parents, and to an older, quiet couple, man 
and woman, who sat smiling together on a couch. 

While Jonas watched, the people began one by one to 
untie the ribbons on the packages, to unwrap the bright 
papers, open the boxes and reveal toys and clothing and 
books. There were cries of delight. They hugged one an- 
other. 

The small child went and sat on the lap of the old 
woman, and she rocked him and rubbed her cheek against 
his. 

Jonas opened his eyes and lay contentedly on the bed, 
still luxuriating in the warm and comforting memory. It had 
all been there, all the things he had learned to treasure. 

"What did you perceive?" The Giver asked. 

"Warmth," Jonas replied, "and happiness. And — let me 
think. Family. That it was a celebration of some sort, a 
holiday. And something else — I can't quite get the word 
for it." 

"It will come to you." 

"Who were the old people? Why were they there?" It had 
puzzled Jonas, seeing them in the room. The Old of the 
community did not ever leave their special place, the House 
of the Old, where they were so well cared for and 
respected. 

"They were called Grandparents." 


122 


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"Grand parents?" 

"Grandparents. It meant parents-of-the-parents, long 
ago." 

"Back and back and back?" Jonas began to laugh. "So 
actually, there could be parents-of-the-parents-of-the- 
parents-of-the parents?" 

The Giver laughed, too. "That's right. It's a little like 
looking at yourself looking in a mirror looking at yourself 
looking in a mirror." 

Jonas frowned. "But my parents must have had parents! 
I never thought about it before. Who are my parents-of- 
the-parents? Where are they?" 

"You could go look in the Hall of Open Records. You'd 
find the names. But think, son. If you apply for children, 
then who will be their parents-of-the-parents? Who will be 
their grandparents?" 

"My mother and father, of course." 

"And where will they be?" 

Jonas thought. "Oh," he said slowly. "When I finish my 
training and become a full adult, I'll be given my own 
dwelling. And then when Lily does, a few years later, she'll 
get her own dwelling, and maybe a spouse, and children if 
she applies for them, and then Mother and Father — " 

"That's right." 

"As long as they're still working and contributing to the 
community, they'll go and live with the other Child-less 
Adults. And they won't be part of my life anymore. 

"And after that, when the time comes, they'll go to the 
House of the Old," Jonas went on. He was thinking aloud. 
"And they'll be well cared for, and respected, and when 
they're released, there will be a celebration." 


"Which you won't attend," The Giver pointed out. 

"No, of course not, because I won't even know about it. 
By then I'll be so busy with my own life. And Lily will, 
too. So our children, if we have them, won't know who 
their parents-of-parents are, either. 

"It seems to work pretty well that way, doesn't it? The 
way we do it in our community?" Jonas asked. "I just didn't 
realize there was any other way, until I received that 
memory." 

"It works," The Giver agreed. 

Jonas hesitated. "I certainly liked the memory, though. I 
can see why it's your favorite. I couldn't quite get the word 
for the whole feeling of it, the feeling that was so strong in 
the room." 

"Love," The Giver told him. 

Jonas repeated it. "Love." It was a word and concept 
new to him. 

They were both silent for a minute. Then Jonas said, 
"Giver?" 

"Yes?" 

"I feel very foolish saying this. Very, very foolish." "No 
need. Nothing is foolish here. Trust the memories and 
how they make you feel." 

"Well," Jonas said, looking at the floor, "I know you 
don't have the memory anymore, because you gave it to me, 
so maybe you won't understand this — " 

"I will. I am left with a vague wisp of that one; and I 
have many other memories of families, and holidays, and 
happiness. Of love." 

Jonas blurted out what he was feeling. "I was thinking 
that . . . well, I can see that it wasn't a very practical way 


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to live, with the Old right there in the same place, where 
maybe they wouldn't be well taken care of, the way they are 
now, and that we have a better-arranged way of doing 
things. But anyway, 1 was thinking, I mean feeling, actu- 
ally, that it was kind of nice, then. And that I wish we could 
be that way, and that you could be my grandparent. The 
family in the memory seemed a little more — " He faltered, 
not able to find the word he wanted. 

"A little more complete," The Giver suggested. 

Jonas nodded. "I liked the feeling of love," he confessed. 
He glanced nervously at the speaker on the wall, reassuring 
himself that no one was listening. "I wish we still had that," 
he whispered. "Of course," he added quickly, "I do 
understand that it wouldn't work very well. And that it's 
much better to be organized the way we are now. 1 can see 
that it was a dangerous way to live." 

"What do you mean?" 

Jonas hesitated. He wasn't certain, really, what he had 
meant. He could feel that there was risk involved, though 
he wasn't sure how. "Well," he said finally, grasping for an 
explanation, "they had fire right there in that room. There 
was a fire burning in the fireplace. And there were candles 
on a table. I can certainly see why those things were 
outlawed. 

"Still," he said slowly, almost to himself, "I did like the 
light they made. And the warmth." 

"Father? Mother?" Jonas asked tentatively after the evening 
meal. "I have a question I want to ask you." 

"What is it, Jonas?" his father asked. 

He made himself say the words, though he felt flushed 


with embarrassment. He had rehearsed them in his mind all 
the way home from the Annex. 

"Do you love me?" 

There was an awkward silence for a moment. Then Fa- 
ther gave a little chuckle. Jonas. You, of all people. Preci- 
sion of language, please! " 

"What do you mean?" Jonas asked. Amusement was not 
at all what he had anticipated. 

"Your father means that you used a very generalized 
word, so meaningless that it's become almost obsolete," his 
mother explained carefully. 

Jonas stared at them. Meaningless? He had never before 
felt anything as meaningful as the memory. 

"And of course our community can't function smoothly 
if people don't use precise language. You could ask, 'Do 
you enjoy me?' The answer is 'Yes,' " his mother said. 

"Or," his father suggested, "'Do you take pride in my 
accomplishments?' And the answer is wholeheartedly 
'Yes.'" 

"Do you understand why it's inappropriate to use a word 
like 'love'?" Mother asked. 

Jonas nodded. "Yes, thank you, I do," he replied slowly. 

It was his first lie to his parents. 

"Gabriel?" Jonas whispered that night to the newchild. 
The crib was in his room again. After Gabe had slept 
soundly in Jonas's room for four nights, his parents had 
pronounced the experiment a success and Jonas a hero. 
Gabriel was growing rapidly, now crawling and giggling 
across the room and pulling himself up to stand. He could 


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be upgraded in the Nurturing Center, Father said happily, 
now that he slept; he could be officially named and given 
to his family in December, which was only two months 
away. 

But when he was taken away, he stopped sleeping 
again, and cried in the night. 

So he was back in Jonas's sleepingroom. They would 
give it a little more time, they decided. Since Gabe seemed 
to like it in Jonas's room, he would sleep there at night a 
little longer, until the habit of sound sleep was fully 
formed. The Nurturers were very optimistic about Ga- 
briel's future. 

There was no answer to Jonas's whisper. Gabriel was 
sound asleep. 

"Things could change, Gabe," Jonas went on. "Things 
could be different. 1 don't know how, but there must be 
some way for things to be different. There could be colors. 

"And grandparents," he added, staring through the 
dimness toward the ceiling of his sleepingroom. "And ev- 
erybody would have the memories. 

"You know about memories," he whispered, turning 
toward the crib. 

Gabriel's breathing was even and deep. Jonas liked 
having him there, though he felt guilty about the secret. 
Each night he gave memories to Gabriel: memories of boat 
rides and picnics in the sun; memories of soft rainfall 
against windowpanes; memories of dancing barefoot on a 
damp lawn. 

"Gabe?" 

The newchild stirred slightly in his sleep. Jonas looked 
over at him. 


128 


"There could be love," Jonas whispered. 

The next morning, for the first time, Jonas did not take his 
pill. Something within him, something that had grown there 
through the memories, told him to throw the pill away. 


129 



17 


TODAY IS DECLARED AN UNSCHEDULED HOLIDAY. Jonas, 
his parents, and Lily all turned in surprise and looked at the 
wall speaker from which the announcement had come. It 
happened so rarely, and was such a treat for the entire 
community when it did. Adults were exempted from the 
day's work, children from school and training and volunteer 
hours. The substitute Laborers, who would be given a 
different holiday, took over all the necessary tasks: nurtur- 
ing, food delivery, and care of the Old; and the community 
was free. 

Jonas cheered, and put his homework folder down. He 
had been about to leave for school. School was less impor- 
tant to him now; and before much more time passed, his 
formal schooling would end. But still, for Twelves, though 
they had begun their adult training, there were the endless 
lists of rules to be memorized and the newest technology to 
be mastered. 

He wished his parents, sister, and Gabe a happy day, and 
rode down the bicycle path, looking for Asher. 

He had not taken the pills, now, for four weeks. The 
Stirrings had returned, and he felt a little guilty and em- 
barrassed about the pleasurable dreams that came to him 


as he slept. But he knew he couldn't go back to the world of 
no feelings that he had lived in so long. 

And his new, heightened feelings permeated a greater 
realm than simply his sleep. Though he knew that his failure 
to take the pills accounted for some of it, he thought that the 
feelings came also from the memories. Now he could see all 
of the colors; and he could keep them, too, so that the trees 
and grass and bushes stayed green in his vision. Gabriel's 
rosy cheeks stayed pink, even when he slept. And apples 
were always, always red. 

Now, through the memories, he had seen oceans and 
mountain lakes and streams that gurgled through woods; 
and now he saw the familiar wide river beside the path 
differently. He saw all of the light and color and history it 
contained and carried in its slow-moving water; and he 
knew that there was an Elsewhere from which it came, and 
an Elsewhere to which it was going. 

On this unexpected, casual holiday he felt happy, as he 
always had on holidays; but with a deeper happiness than 
ever before. Thinking, as he always did, about precision of 
language, Jonas realized that it was a new depth of feelings 
that he was experiencing. Somehow they were not at all the 
same as the feelings that every evening, in every dwelling, 
every citizen analyzed with endless talk. 

"I felt angry because someone broke the play area rules," 
Lily had said once, making a fist with her small hand to 
indicate her fury. Her family — Jonas among them — had 
talked about the possible reasons for rule-breaking, and the 
need for understanding and patience, until Lily's fist had 
relaxed and her anger was gone. 

But Lily had not felt anger, Jonas realized now. Shallow 


130 


131 



impatience and exasperation, that was all Lily had felt. He 
knew that with certainty because now he knew what anger 
was. Now he had, in the memories, experienced injustice 
and cruelty, and he had reacted with rage that welled up so 
passionately inside him that the thought of discussing it 
calmly at the evening meal was unthinkable. 

"I felt sad today," he had heard his mother say, and they 
had comforted her. 

But now Jonas had experienced real sadness. He had felt 
grief. He knew that there was no quick comfort for 
emotions like those. 

These were deeper and they did not need to be told. They 
were felt. 

Today, he felt happiness. 

"Asher!" He spied his friend's bicycle leaning against a 
tree at the edge of the playing field. Nearby, other bikes 
were strewn about on the ground. On a holiday the usual 
rules of order could be disregarded. 

He skidded to a stop and dropped his own bike beside 
the others. "Hey, Ash!" he shouted, looking around. There 
seemed to be no one in the play area. "Where are you?" 

"Psssheeewwww!" A child's voice, coming from behind a 
nearby bush, made the sound. "Pow! Pow! Pow!" 

A female Eleven named Tanya staggered forward from 
where she had been hiding. Dramatically she clutched her 
stomach and stumbled about in a zig-zag pattern, groaning. 
"You got me!" she called, and fell to the ground, grinning. 

"Blam!" 

Jonas, standing on the side of the playing field, recog- 


nized Asher's voice. He saw his friend, aiming an imagi- 
nary weapon in his hand, dart from behind one tree to an- 
other. "Blam! You're in my line of ambush, Jonas! Watch 
out!" 

Jonas stepped back. He moved behind Asher's bike and 
knelt so that he was out of sight. It was a game he had often 
played with the other children, a game of good guys and 
bad guys, a harmless pasttime that used up their contained 
energy and ended only when they all lay posed in freakish 
postures on the ground. 

He had never recognized it before as a game of war. 

"Attack!" The shout came from behind the small store- 
house where play equipment was kept. Three children 
dashed forward, their imaginary weapons in firing position. 

From the opposite side of the field came an opposing 
shout: "Counter-attack!" From their hiding places a horde 
of children — Jonas recognized Fiona in the group — 
emerged, running in a crouched position, firing across the 
field. Several of them stopped, grabbed their own 
shoulders and chests with exaggerated gestures, and pre- 
tended to be hit. They dropped to the ground and lay sup- 
pressing giggles. 

Feelings surged within Jonas. He found himself walking 
forward into the field. 

"You're hit, Jonas!" Asher yelled from behind the tree. 
"Pow! You're hit again!" 

Jonas stood alone in the center of the field. Several of 
the children raised their heads and looked at him uneasily. 
The attacking armies slowed, emerged from their crouched 
positions, and watched to see what he was doing. 


132 


133 



In his mind, Jonas saw again the face of the boy who 
had lain dying on a field and had begged him for water. He 
had a sudden choking feeling, as if it were difficult to 
breathe. 

One of the children raised an imaginary rifle and made 
an attempt to destroy him with a firing noise. "Pssheeew!" 
Then they were all silent, standing awkwardly, and the 
only sound was the sound of Jonas's shuddering breaths. 
He was struggling not to cry. 

Gradually, when nothing happened, nothing changed, 
the children looked at each other nervously and went away. 
He heard the sounds as they righted their bicycles and 
began to ride down the path that led from the field. 

Only Asher and Fiona remained. 

"What's wrong, Jonas? It was only a game," Fiona said. 

"You ruined it," Asher said in an irritated voice. 

"Don't play it anymore," Jonas pleaded. 

"I'm the one who's training for Assistant Recreation 
Director," Asher pointed out angrily. "Games aren't your 
area of expertness." 

"Expertise," Jonas corrected him automatically. 

"Whatever. You can't say what we play, even if you are 
going to be the new Receiver." Asher looked warily at him. 
"I apologize for not paying you the respect you deserve," 
he mumbled. 

"Asher," Jonas said. He was trying to speak carefully, 
and with kindness, to say exactly what he wanted to say. 
"You had no way of knowing this. I didn't know it myself 
until recently. But it's a cruel game. In the past, there have 

It 


"I said I apologize, Jonas." 

Jonas sighed. It was no use. Of course Asher couldn't 
understand. "I accept your apology, Asher," he said wearily. 

"Do you want to go for a ride along the river, Jonas?" 
Fiona asked, biting her lip with nervousness. 

Jonas looked at her. She was so lovely. For a fleeting in- 
stant he thought he would like nothing better than to ride 
peacefully along the river path, laughing and talking with 
his gentle female friend. But he knew that such times had 
been taken from him now. He shook his head. After a 
moment his two friends turned and went to their bikes. He 
watched as they rode away. 

Jonas trudged to the bench beside the Storehouse and sat 
down, overwhelmed with feelings of loss. His child-hood, 
his friendships, his carefree sense of security — all of these 
things seemed to be slipping away. With his new, 
heightened feelings, he was overwhelmed by sadness at the 
way the others had laughed and shouted, playing at war. But 
he knew that they could not understand why, without the 
memories. He felt such love for Asher and for Fiona. But 
they could not feel it back, without the memories. And he 
could not give them those. Jonas knew with certainty that 
he could change nothing. 

Back in their dwelling, that evening, Lily chattered merrily 
about the wonderful holiday she had had, playing with 
her friends, having her midday meal out of doors, and (she 
confessed) sneaking a very short try on her father's bicycle. 

"I can't wait till I get my very own bicycle next month. 
Father's is too big for me. I fell," she explained matter-of- 


134 


135 



factly. "Good thing Gabe wasn't in the child seat!" 

"A very good thing," Mother agreed, frowning at the 
idea of it. Gabriel waved his arms at the mention of him- 
self. He had begun to walk just the week before. The first 
steps of a newchild were always the occasion for celebra- 
tion at the Nurturing Center, Father said, but also for the 
introduction of a discipline wand. Now Father brought the 
slender instrument home with him each night, in case Ga- 
briel misbehaved. 

But he was a happy and easygoing toddler. Now he 
moved unsteadily across the room, laughing. "Gay!" he 
chirped. "Gay!" It was the way he said his own name. 

Jonas brightened. It had been a depressing day for him, 
after such a bright start. But he set his glum thoughts aside. 
He thought about starting to teach Lily to ride so that she 
could speed off proudly after her Ceremony of Nine, which 
would be coming soon. It was hard to believe that it was 
almost December again, that almost a year had passed since 
he had become a Twelve. 

He smiled as he watched the newchild plant one small 
foot carefully before the other, grinning with glee at his 
own steps as he tried them out. 

"I want to get to sleep early tonight," Father said. "To- 
morrow's a busy day for me. The twins are being born to- 
morrow, and the test results show that they're identical." 

"One for here, one for Elsewhere," Lily chanted. "One 
for here, one for Else — " 

"Do you actually take it Elsewhere, Father?" Jonas 
asked. 

"No, I just have to make the selection. I weigh them, 
hand the larger over to a Nurturer who's standing by, 


waiting, and then I get the smaller one all cleaned up and 
comfy. Then I perform a small Ceremony of Release and — 
" He glanced down, grinning at Gabriel. "Then I wave bye- 
bye," he said, in the special sweet voice he used when he 
spoke to the newchild. He waved his hand in the familiar 
gesture. 

Gabriel giggled and waved bye-bye back to him. "And 
somebody else comes to get him? Somebody from 
Elsewhere?" 

"That's right, Jonas-bonus." 

Jonas rolled his eyes in embarrassment that his father 
had used the silly pet name. 

Lily was deep in thought. "What if they give the little 
twin a name Elsewhere, a name like, oh, maybe Jonathan? 
And here, in our community, at his naming, the twin that 
we kept here is given the name Jonathan, and then there 
would be two children with the same name, and they would 
look exactly the same, and someday, maybe when they 
were a Six, one group of Sixes would go to visit an-other 
community on a bus, and there in the other community, in 
the other group of Sixes, would be a Jonathan who was 
exactly the same as the other Jonathan, and then maybe 
they would get mixed up and take the wrong Jonathan 
home, and maybe his parents wouldn't notice, and then — " 

She paused for breath. 

"Lily," Mother said, "I have a wonderful idea. Maybe 
when you become a Twelve, they'll give you the Assign- 
ment of Storyteller! I don't think we've had a Storyteller in 
the community for a long time. But if I were on the Com- 
mittee, I would definitely choose you for that job!" 


136 


137 



Lily grinned. "I have a better idea for one more story," 
she announced. "What if actually we were all twins and 
didn't know it, and so Elsewhere there would be another 
Lily, and another Jonas, and another Father, and another 
Asher, and another Chief Elder, and another — " 

Father groaned. "Lily," he said. "It's bedtime." 


138 


18 


"Giver," Jonas asked the next afternoon, "Do you ever think 
about release?" 

"Do you mean my own release, or just the general topic 
of release?" 

"Both, I guess. I apologi — I mean I should have been 
more precise. But I don't know exactly what I meant." 

"Sit back up. No need to lie down while we're talking." 
Jonas, who had already been stretched out on the bed when 
the question came to his mind, sat back up. 

"I guess I do think about it occasionally," The Giver 
said. "I think about my own release when I'm in an awful 
lot of pain. I wish I could put in a request for it, some- 
times. But I'm not permitted to do that until the new Re- 
ceiver is trained." 

"Me," Jonas said in a dejected voice. He was not looking 
forward to the end of the training, when he would become 
the new Receiver. It was clear to him what a terribly 
difficult and lonely life it was, despite the honor. 

"I can't request release either," Jonas pointed out. "It was 
in my rules." 

The Giver laughed harshly. "I know that. They ham- 
mered out those rules after the failure ten years ago." 


139 



Jonas had heard again and again now, reference to the 
previous failure. But he still did not know what had hap- 
pened ten years before. "Giver," he said, "tell me what 
happened. Please." 

The Giver shrugged. "On the surface, it was quite simple. 
A Receiver-to-be was selected, the way you were. The 
selection went smoothly enough. The Ceremony was held, 
and the selection was made. The crowd cheered, as they did 
for you. The new Receiver was puzzled and a little 
frightened, as you were." 

"My parents told me it was a female." 

The Giver nodded. 

Jonas thought of his favorite female, Fiona, and shivered. 
He wouldn't want his gentle friend to suffer the way he had, 
taking on the memories. "What was she like?" he asked The 
Giver. 

The Giver looked sad, thinking about it. "She was a re- 
markable young woman. Very self-possessed and serene. 
Intelligent, eager to learn." He shook his head and drew a 
deep breath. "You know, Jonas, when she came to me in 
this room, when she presented herself to begin her training 

If 

Jonas interrupted him with a question. "Can you tell me 
her name? My parents said that it wasn't to be spoken again 
in the community. But couldn't you say it just to me?" 

The Giver hesitated painfully, as if saying the name aloud 
might be excruciating. "Her name was Rosemary," he told 
Jonas, finally. 

"Rosemary. I like that name." 

The Giver went on. "When she came to me for the first 


time, she sat there in the chair where you sat on your first 
day. She was eager and excited and a little scared. We 
talked. I tried to explain things as well as I could." 

"The way you did to me." 

The Giver chuckled ruefully. "The explanations are 
difficult. The whole thing is so beyond one's experience. 
But I tried. And she listened carefully. Her eyes were very 
luminous, I remember." 

He looked up suddenly. "Jonas, I gave you a memory 
that I told you was my favorite. I still have a shred of it 
left. The room, with the family, and grandparents?" 

Jonas nodded. Of course he remembered. "Yes," he said. 
"It had that wonderful feeling with it. You told me it was 
love." 

"You can understand, then, that that's what I felt for 
Rosemary," The Giver explained. "I loved her. 

"I feel it for you, too," he added. 

"What happened to her?" Jonas asked. 

"Her training began. She received well, as you do. She 
was so enthusiastic. So delighted to experience new things. I 
remember her laughter ... " 

His voice faltered and trailed off. 

"What happened?" Jonas asked again, after a moment. 
"Please tell me." 

The Giver closed his eyes. "It broke my heart, Jonas, to 
transfer pain to her. But it was my job. It was what I had to 
do, the way I've had to do it to you." 

The room was silent. Jonas waited. Finally The Giver 
continued. 

"Five weeks. That was all. I gave her happy memories: a 
ride on a merry-go-round; a kitten to play with; a picnic. 


140 


141 



Sometimes I chose one just because I knew it would make 
her laugh, and I so treasured the sound of that laughter in 
this room that had always been so silent. 

"But she was like you, Jonas. She wanted to experience 
everything. She knew that it was her responsibility. And so 
she asked me for more difficult memories." 

Jonas held his breath for a moment. "You didn't give her 
war, did you? Not after just five weeks?" 

The Giver shook his head and sighed. "No. And I didn't 
give her physical pain. But I gave her loneliness. And I 
gave her loss. I transferred a memory of a child taken from 
its parents. That was the first one. She appeared stunned at 
its end." 

Jonas swallowed. Rosemary, and her laughter, had 
begun to seem real to him, and he pictured her looking up 
from the bed of memories, shocked. 

The Giver continued. "I backed off, gave her more little 
delights. But everything changed, once she knew about 
pain. I could see it in her eyes." 

"She wasn't brave enough?" Jonas suggested. 

The Giver didn't respond to the question. "She insisted 
that I continue, that I not spare her. She said it was her 
duty. And I knew, of course, that she was correct. 

"I couldn't bring myself to inflict physical pain on her. 
But I gave her anguish of many kinds. Poverty, and hunger, 
and terror. 

"I had to, Jonas. It was my job. And she had been 
chosen." The Giver looked at him imploringly. Jonas 
stroked his hand. 

"Finally one afternoon, we finished for the day. It had 
been a hard session. I tried to finish — as I do with 


you — by transferring something happy and cheerful. But 
the times of laughter were gone by then. She stood up very 
silently, frowning, as if she were making a decision. Then 
she came over to me and put her arms around me. She 
kissed my cheek." As Jonas watched, The Giver stroked 
his own cheek, recalling the touch of Rosemary's lips ten 
years before. 

"She left here that day, left this room, and did not go 
back to her dwelling. I was notified by the Speaker that 
she had gone directly to the Chief Elder and asked to be 
released." 

"But it's against the rules! The Receiver-in-training 
can't apply for rel — " 

"It's in your rules, Jonas. But it wasn't in hers. She 
asked for release, and they had to give it to her. I never 
saw her again." 

So that was the failure, Jonas thought. It was obvious 
that it saddened The Giver very deeply. But it didn't seem 
such a terrible thing, after all. And he, Jonas, would never 
have done it — never have requested release, no matter 
now difficult his training became. The Giver needed a 
successor, and he had been chosen. 

A thought occurred to Jonas. Rosemary had been re- 
leased very early in her training. What if something hap- 
pened to him, Jonas? He had a whole year's worth of 
memories now. 

"Giver," he asked, "I can't request release, I know that. 
But what if something happened: an accident? What if I 
fell into the river like the little Four, Caleb, did? Well, that 
doesn't make sense because I'm a good swimmer. But what 
if I couldn't swim, and fell into the river and was 


142 


143 



lost? Then there wouldn't be a new Receiver, but you would 
already have given away an awful lot of important 
memories, so even though they would select a new Re- 
ceiver, the memories would be gone except for the shreds 
that you have left of them? And then what if — " 

He started to laugh, suddenly. "I sound like my sister, 
Lily," he said, amused at himself. 

The Giver looked at him gravely. "You just stay away 
from the river, my friend," he said. "The community lost 
Rosemary after five weeks and it was a disaster for them. I 
don't know what the community would do if they lost you." 

"Why was it a disaster?" 

"I think I mentioned to you once," The Giver re-minded 
him, "that when she was gone, the memories came back to 
the people. If you were to be lost in the river, Jonas, your 
memories would not be lost with you. Memories are 
forever. 

"Rosemary had only those five weeks worth, and most of 
them were good ones. But there were those few terrible 
memories, the ones that had overwhelmed her. For a while 
they overwhelmed the community. All those feelings! 
They'd never experienced that before. 

"I was so devastated by my own grief at her loss, and my 
own feeling of failure, that I didn't even try to help them 
through it. I was angry, too." 

The Giver was quiet for a moment, obviously thinking. 
"You know," he said, finally, "if they lost you, with all the 
training you've had now, they'd have all those memories 
again themselves." 

Jonas made a face. "They'd hate that." 


"They certainly would. They wouldn't know how to deal 
with it at all." 

"The only way I deal with it is by having you there to 
help me," Jonas pointed out with a sigh. 

The Giver nodded. "I suppose," he said slowly, "that I 
could — " 

"You could what?" 

The Giver was still deep in thought. After a moment, he 
said, "If you floated off in the river, I suppose I could help 
the whole community the way I've helped you. It's an 
interesting concept. I need to think about it some more. 
Maybe we'll talk about it again sometime. But not now. 

"I'm glad you're a good swimmer, Jonas. But stay away 
from the river." He laughed a little, but the laughter was 
not lighthearted. His thoughts seemed to be else-where, and 
his eyes were very troubled. 


144 


145 



19 


Jonas glanced at the clock. There was so much work to be 
done, always, that he and The Giver seldom simply sat and 
talked, the way they just had. 

"I'm sorry that I wasted so much time with my ques- 
tions," Jonas said. "I was only asking about release be- 
cause my father is releasing a newchild today. A twin. He 
has to select one and release the other one. They do it by 
weight." Jonas glanced at the clock. "Actually, I suppose 
he's already finished. I think it was this morning." 

The Giver's face took on a solemn look. "I wish they 
wouldn't do that," he said quietly, almost to himself. 

"Well, they can't have two identical people around! 
Think how confusing it would be!" Jonas chuckled. 

"I wish I could watch," he added, as an afterthought. He 
liked the thought of seeing his father perform the cere- 
mony, and making the little twin clean and comfy. His fa- 
ther was such a gentle man. 

"You can watch," The Giver said. 

"No," Jonas told him. "They never let children watch. 
It's very private." 

"Jonas," The Giver told him, "I know that you read your 
training instructions very carefully. Don't you remember 
that you are allowed to ask anyone anything?" 


Jonas nodded. "Yes, but — " 

"Jonas, when you and I have finished our time together, 
you will be the new Receiver. You can read the books; 
you'll have the memories. You have access to everything. It's 
part of your training. If you want to watch a release, you 
have simply to ask." 

Jonas shrugged. "Well, maybe I will, then. But it's too 
late for this one. I'm sure it was this morning." 

The Giver told him, then, something he had not known. 
"All private ceremonies are recorded. They're in the Hall 
of Closed Records. Do you want to see this morning's 
release? " 

Jonas hesitated. He was afraid that his father wouldn't 
like it, if he watched something so private. 

"I think you should," The Giver told him firmly. 

"All right, then," Jonas said. "Tell me how." 

The Giver rose from his chair, went to the speaker on 
the wall, and clicked the switch from OFF to ON. 

The voice spoke immediately. "Yes, Receiver. How 
may I help you?" 

"I would like to see this morning's release of the twin." 
"One moment, Receiver. Thank you for your instruc- 
tions." 

Jonas watched the video screen above the row of 
switches. Its blank face began to flicker with zig-zag lines; 
then some numbers appeared, followed by the date and 
time. He was astonished and delighted that this was avail- 
able to him, and surprised that he had not known. 

Suddenly he could see a small windowless room, empty 
except for a bed, a table with some equipment on it — 
Jonas recognized a scale; he had seen them before, when 
he'd been doing volunteer hours at the Nurturing Center — 


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and a cupboard. He could see pale carpeting on the floor. 

"It's just an ordinary room," he commented. "I thought 
maybe they'd have it in the Auditorium, so that everybody 
could come. All the Old go to Ceremonies of Release. But I 
suppose that when it's just a newborn, they don't — " 

"Shhh," The Giver said, his eyes on the screen. 

Jonas's father, wearing his nurturing uniform, entered 
the room, cradling a tiny newchild wrapped in a soft blan- 
ket in his arms. A uniformed woman followed through the 
door, carrying a second newchild wrapped in a similar 
blanket. 

"That's my father." Jonas found himself whispering, as 
if he might wake the little ones if he spoke aloud. "And the 
other Nurturer is his assistant. She's still in training, but 
she'll be finished soon." 

The two Nurturers unwrapped the blankets and laid the 
identical newborns on the bed. They were naked. Jonas 
could see that they were males. 

He watched, fascinated, as his father gently lifted one 
and then the other to the scale and weighed them. 

He heard his father laugh. "Good," his father said to the 
woman. "I thought for a moment that they might both be 
exactly the same. Then we'd have a problem. But this one," 
he handed one, after rewrapping it, to his assistant, "is six 
pounds even. So you can clean him up and dress him and 
take him over to the Center." 

The woman took the newchild and left through the door 
she had entered. 

Jonas watched as his father bent over the squirming 
newchild on the bed. "And you, little guy, you're only five 


pounds ten ounces. A shrimp. 

"That's the special voice he uses with Gabriel," Jonas 
remarked, smiling. 

"Watch," The Giver said. 

"Now he cleans him up and makes him comfy," Jonas 
told him. "He told me." 

"Be quiet, Jonas," The Giver commanded in a strange 
voice. "Watch. " 

Obediently Jonas concentrated on the screen, waiting for 
what would happen next. He was especially curious about 
the ceremony part. 

His father turned and opened the cupboard. He took out 
a syringe and a small bottle. Very carefully he inserted the 
needle into the bottle and began to fill the syringe with a 
clear liquid. 

Jonas winced sympathetically. He had forgotten that 
newchildren had to get shots. He hated shots himself, 
though he knew that they were necessary. 

To his surprise, his father began very carefully to direct 
the needle into the top of newchild's forehead, puncturing 
the place where the fragile skin pulsed. The newborn 
squirmed, and wailed faintly. 

"Why's he — " 

"Shhh," The Giver said sharply. 

His father was talking, and Jonas realized that he was 
hearing the answer to the question he had started to ask. 
Still in the special voice, his father was saying, "I know, I 
know. It hurts, little guy. But I have to use a vein, and the 
veins in your arms are still too teeny-weeny." 

He pushed the plunger very slowly, injecting the liquid 
into the scalp vein until the syringe was empty. 


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All done. That wasn't so hard, was it?" Jonas heard his 
father say cheerfully. He turned aside and dropped the sy- 
ringe into a waste receptacle. 

Now he cleans him up and makes him comfy, Jonas said 
to himself, aware that The Giver didn't want to talk during 
the little ceremony. 

As he continued to watch, the newchild, no longer cry- 
ing, moved his arms and legs in a jerking motion. Then he 
went limp. He head fell to the side, his eyes half open. Then 
he was still. 

With an odd, shocked feeling, Jonas recognized the 
gestures and posture and expression. They were familiar. 
He had seen them before. But he couldn't remember where. 

Jonas stared at the screen, waiting for something to 
happen. But nothing did. The little twin lay motionless. His 
father was putting things away. Folding the blanket. 
Closing the cupboard. 

Once again, as he had on the playing field, he felt the 
choking sensation. Once again he saw the face of the light- 
haired, bloodied soldier as life left his eyes. The memory 
came back. 

He killed it! My father killed it! Jonas said to himself, 
stunned at what he was realizing. He continued to stare at 
the screen numbly. 

His father tidied the room. Then he picked up a small 
carton that lay waiting on the floor, set it on the bed, and 
lifted the limp body into it. He placed the lid on tightly. 

He picked up the carton and carried it to the other side 
of the room. He opened a small door in the wall; Jonas 
could see darkness behind the door. It seemed to be the 


same sort of chute into which trash was deposited at 
school. 

His father loaded the carton containing the body into the 
chute and gave it a shove. 

"Bye-bye, little guy," Jonas heard his father say before 
he left the room. Then the screen went blank. 

The Giver turned to him. Quite calmly, he related, 
"When the Speaker notified me that Rosemary had applied 
for release, they turned on the tape to show me the process. 
There she was — my last glimpse of that beautiful child — 
waiting. They brought in the syringe and asked her to roll 
up her sleeve. 

"You suggested, Jonas, that perhaps she wasn't brave 
enough? I don't know about bravery: what it is, what it 
means. I do know that I sat here numb with horror. 
Wretched with helplessness. And I listened as Rosemary 
told them that she would prefer to inject herself. 

"Then she did so. I didn't watch. I looked away." 

The Giver turned to him. "Well, there you are, Jonas. 
You were wondering about release," he said in a bitter 
voice. 

Jonas felt a ripping sensation inside himself, the feeling 
of terrible pain clawing its way forward to emerge in a cry. 


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20 


"I won't! I won't go home! You can't make me!" Jonas 
sobbed and shouted and pounded the bed with his fists. 
"Sit up, Jonas," The Giver told him firmly. 

Jonas obeyed him. Weeping, shuddering, he sat on the 
edge of the bed. He would not look at The Giver. 

"You may stay here tonight. I want to talk to you. But 
you must be quiet now, while I notify your family unit. No 
one must hear you cry." 

Jonas looked up wildly. "No one heard that little twin 
cry, either! No one but my father!" He collapsed in sobs 
again. 

The Giver waited silently. Finally Jonas was able to 
quiet himself and he sat huddled, his shoulders shaking. 

The Giver went to the wall speaker and clicked the 
switch to ON. 

"Yes, Receiver. How may 1 help you?" 

"Notify the new Receiver's family unit that he will be 
staying with me tonight, for additional training." 

"I will take care of that, sir. Thank you for your in- 
structions," the voice said. 

"I will take care of that, sir. I will take care of that, sir," 
Jonas mimicked in a cruel, sarcastic voice. "I will do what- 


ever you like, sir. I will kill people, sir. Old people? Small 
newborn people? I'd be happy to kill them, sir. Thank you 
for your instructions, sir. How may I help y — "He 
couldn't seem to stop. 

The Giver grasped his shoulders firmly. Jonas fell silent 
and stared at him. 

"Listen to me, Jonas. They can't help it. They know 
nothing. " 

"You said that to me once before." 

"I said it because it's true. It's the way they live. It's the 
life that was created for them. It's the same life that you 
would have, if you had not been chosen as my successor." 

"But he lied to me!" Jonas wept. 

"It's what he was told to do, and he knows nothing else." 

"What about you? Do you lie to me, too?" Jonas almost 
spat the question at The Giver. 

"I am empowered to lie. But I have never lied to you." 

Jonas stared at him. "Release is always like that? For 
people who break the rules three times? For the Old? Do 
they kill the Old, too?" 

"Yes, it's true." 

"And what about Fiona? She loves the Old! She's in 
training to care for them. Does she know yet? What will 
she do when she finds out? How will she feel?" Jonas 
brushed wetness from his face with the back of one hand. 

"Fiona is already being trained in the fine art of re- 
lease," The Giver told him. "She's very efficient at her 
work, your red-haired friend. Feelings are not part of the 
life she's learned." 

Jonas wrapped his arms around himself and rocked his 


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own body back and forth. "What should I do? I can't go 
back! I can't!" 

The Giver stood up. "First, I will order our evening 
meal. Then we will eat." 

Jonas found himself using the nasty, sarcastic voice 
again. "Then we'll have a sharing of feelings?" 

The Giver gave a rueful, anguished, empty laugh. 
"Jonas, you and I are the only ones who have feelings. 
We've been sharing them now for almost a year." 

"I'm sorry, Giver," Jonas said miserably. "I don't mean 
to be so hateful. Not to you." 

The Giver rubbed Jonas's hunched shoulders. "And after 
we eat," he went on, "we'll make a plan." 

Jonas looked up, puzzled. "A plan for what? There's 
nothing. There's nothing we can do. It's always been this 
way. Before me, before you, before the ones who came be- 
fore you. Back and back and back." His voice trailed the 
familiar phrase. 

"Jonas," The Giver said, after a moment, "it's true that it 
has been this way for what seems forever. But the mem- 
ories tell us that it has not always been. People felt things 
once. You and I have been part of that, so we know. We 
know that they once felt things like pride, and sorrow, and 

II 

"And love," Jonas added, remembering the family scene 
that had so affected him. "And pain." He thought again of 
the soldier. 

"The worst part of holding the memories is not the 
pain. It's the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared." 

"I've started to share them with you," Jonas said, try- 
ing to cheer him. 


"That's true. And having you here with me over the past 
year has made me realize that things must change. For years 
I've felt that they should, but it seemed so hopeless. 

"Now for the first time I think there might be a way," 
The Giver said slowly. "And you brought it to my atten- 
tion, barely — " He glanced at the clock, "two hours ago." 

Jonas watched him, and listened. 

It was late at night, now. They had talked and talked. Jonas 
sat wrapped in a robe belonging to The Giver, the long 
robe that only Elders wore. 

It was possible, what they had planned. Barely possible. 
If it failed, he would very likely be killed. 

But what did that matter? If he stayed, his life was no 
longer worth living. 

"Yes," he told The Giver. "I'll do it. I think I can do it. 
I'll try, anyway. But I want you to come with me." 

The Giver shook his head. "Jonas," he said, "the com- 
munity has depended, all these generations, back and back 
and back, on a resident Receiver to hold their memories for 
them. I've turned over many of them to you in the past 
year. And I can't take them back. There's no way for me to 
get them back if I have given them. 

"So if you escape, once you are gone — and, Jonas, you 
know that you can never return — " 

Jonas nodded solemnly. It was the terrifying part. "Yes," 
he said, "I know. But if you come with me — " 

The Giver shook his head and made a gesture to silence 
him. He continued. "If you get away, if you get beyond, if 
you get to Elsewhere, it will mean that the community has 


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to bear the burden themselves, of the memories you had 
been holding for them. 

"I think that they can, and that they will acquire some 
wisdom. But it will be desperately hard for them. When we 
lost Rosemary ten years ago, and her memories re-turned to 
the people, they panicked. And those were such few 
memories, compared to yours. When your memories return, 
they'll need help. Remember how I helped you in the 
beginning, when the receiving of memories was new to 
you?" 

Jonas nodded. "It was scary at first. And it hurt a lot." 

"You needed me then. And now they will." 

"It's no use. They'll find someone to take my place. 
They'll choose a new Receiver." 

"There's no one ready for training, not right away. Oh, 
they'll speed up the selection, of course. But I can't think of 
another child who has the right qualities — " 

"There's a little female with pale eyes. But she's only a 
Six." 

"That's correct. I know the one you mean. Her name is 
Katharine. But she's too young. So they will be forced to 
bear those memories." 

"I want you to come, Giver," Jonas pleaded. 

"No. I have to stay here," The Giver said firmly. "I want 
to, Jonas. If I go with you, and together we take away all 
their protection from the memories, Jonas, the community 
will be left with no one to help them. They'll be thrown into 
chaos. They'll destroy themselves. I can't go " 

"Giver," Jonas suggested, "you and I don't need to care 
about the rest of them." 


The Giver looked at him with a questioning smile. Jonas 
hung his head. Of course they needed to care. It was the 
meaning of everything. 

"And in any case, Jonas," The Giver sighed, "I wouldn't 
make it. I'm very weakened now. Do you know that I no 
longer see colors?" 

Jonas's heart broke. He reached for The Giver's hand. 

"You have the colors," The Giver told him. "And you 
have the courage. I will help you to have the strength." 

"A year ago," Jonas reminded him, "when I had just 
become a Twelve, when I began to see the first color, you 
told me that the beginning had been different for you. But 
that I wouldn't understand." 

The Giver brightened. "That's true. And do you know, 
Jonas, that with all your knowledge now, with all your 
memories, with all you've learned — still you won't un- 
derstand? Because I've been a little selfish. I haven't given 
any of it to you. I wanted to keep it for myself to the last." 

"Keep what?" 

"When I was just a boy, younger than you, it began to 
come to me. But it wasn't the seeing-beyond for me. It was 
different. For me, it was hearing-bey ond. " 

Jonas frowned, trying to figure that out. "What did you 
hear?" he asked. 

"Music," The Giver said, smiling. "I began to hear 
something truly remarkable, and it is called music. I'll give 
you some before I go." 

Jonas shook his head emphatically. "No, Giver," he said. 
"I want you to keep that, to have with you, when I'm gone." 


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Jonas went home the next morning, cheerfully greeted his 
parents, and lied easily about what a busy, pleasant night he 
had had. 

His father smiled and lied easily, too, about his busy and 
pleasant day the day before. 

Throughout the school day, as he did his lessons, Jonas 
went over the plan in his head. It seemed startlingly simple. 
Jonas and The Giver had gone over it and over it, late into 
the night hours. 

For the next two weeks, as the time for the December 
Ceremony approached. The Giver would transfer every 
memory of courage and strength that he could to Jonas. He 
would need those to help him find the Elsewhere that they 
were both sure existed. They knew it would be a very 
difficult journey. 

Then, in the middle of the night before the Ceremony, 
Jonas would secretly leave his dwelling. This was probably 
the most dangerous part, because it was a violation of a 
major rule for any citizen not on official business to leave a 
dwelling at night. 

"I'll leave at midnight," Jonas said. "The Food Collectors 
will be finished picking up the evening-meal remains by 
then, and the Path-Maintenance Crews don't start their work 
that early. So there won't be anyone to see me, unless of 
course someone is out on emergency business." 

"I don't know what you should do if you are seen, 
Jonas," The Giver had said. "I have memories, of course, of 
all kinds of escapes. People fleeing from terrible things 
throughout history. But every situation is individual. There 
is no memory of one like this." 

"I'll be careful," Jonas said. "No one will see me." 


"As Receiver-in-training, you're held in very high re- 
spect already. So I think you wouldn't be questioned very 
forcefully." 

"I'd just say I was on some important errand for the 
Receiver. I'd say it was all your fault that I was out after 
hours," Jonas teased. 

They both laughed a little nervously. But Jonas was 
certain that he could slip away, unseen, from his house, 
carrying an extra set of clothing. Silently he would take his 
bicycle to the riverbank and leave it there hidden in bushes 
with the clothing folded beside it. 

Then he would make his way through the darkness, on 
foot, silently, to the Annex. 

"There's no nighttime attendant," The Giver explained. 
"I'll leave the door unlocked. You simply slip into the room. 
I'll be waiting for you." 

His parents would discover, when they woke, that he 
was gone. They would also find a cheerful note from Jonas 
on his bed, telling them that he was going for an early 
morning ride along the river; that he would be back for the 
Ceremony. 

His parents would be irritated but not alarmed. They 
would think him inconsiderate and they would plan to 
chastise him, later. 

They would wait, with mounting anger, for him; finally 
they would be forced to go, taking Lily to the Ceremony 
without him. 

"They won't say anything to anyone, though," Jonas 
said, quite certain. "They won't call attention to my rude- 
ness because it would reflect on their parenting. And any- 
way, everyone is so involved in the Ceremony that they 


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probably won't notice that I'm not there. Now that I'm a 
Twelve and in training, I don't have to sit with my age 
group any more. So Asher will think I'm with my parents, 
or with you — " 

"And your parents will assume you're with Asher, or 
with me — " 

Jonas shrugged. "It will take everyone a while to realize 
that I'm not there at all." 

"And you and I will be long on our way by then." 

In the early morning, The Giver would order a vehicle 
and driver from the Speaker. He visited the other commu- 
nities frequently, meeting with their Elders; his responsi- 
bilities extended over all the surrounding areas. So this 
would not be an unusual undertaking. 

Ordinarily The Giver did not attend the December Cer- 
emony. Last year he had been present because of the occa- 
sion of Jonas's selection, in which he was so involved. But 
his life was usually quite separate from that of the commu- 
nity. No one would comment on his absence, or on the fact 
that he had chosen this day to be away. 

When the driver and vehicle arrived. The Giver would 
send the driver on some brief errand. During his absence, 
The Giver would help Jonas hide in the storage area of the 
vehicle. He would have with him a bundle of food which 
The Giver would save from his own meals during the next 
two weeks. 

The Ceremony would begin, with all the community 
there, and by then Jonas and The Giver would be on their 
way. 

By midday Jonas's absence would become apparent, and 
would be a cause for serious concern. The Ceremony 


would not be disrupted — such a disruption would be 
unthinkable. But searchers would be sent out into the 
community. 

By the time his bicycle and clothing were found. The 
Giver would be returning. Jonas, by then, would be on his 
own, making his journey Elsewhere. 

The Giver, on his return, would find the community in a 
state of confusion and panic. Confronted by a situation 
which they had never faced before, and having no memo- 
ries from which to find either solace or wisdom, they 
would not know what to do and would seek his advice. 

He would go to the Auditorium where the people would 
be gathered, still. He would stride to the stage and 
command their attention. 

He would make the solemn announcement that Jonas 
had been lost in the river. He would immediately begin the 
Ceremony of Loss. 

"Jonas, Jonas," they would say loudly, as they had once 
said the name of Caleb. The Giver would lead the chant. 
Together they would let Jonas's presence in their lives fade 
away as they said his name in unison more slowly, softer 
and softer, until he was disappearing from them, until he 
was no more than an occasional murmur and then, by the 
end of the long day, gone forever, not to be mentioned 
again. 

Their attention would turn to the overwhelming task of 
bearing the memories themselves. The Giver would help 
them. 

"Yes, I understand that they'll need you," Jonas had said at 
the end of the lengthy discussion and planning. "But 


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I'll need you, too. Please come with me." He knew the an- 
swer even as he made the final plea. 

"My work will be finished," The Giver had replied 
gently, "when I have helped the community to change and 
become whole. 

"I'm grateful to you, Jonas, because without you I 
would never have figured out a way to bring about the 
change. But your role now is to escape. And my role is to 
stay." 

"But don't you want to be with me, Giver?" Jonas asked 
sadly. 

The Giver hugged him. "I love you, Jonas," he said. 
"But I have another place to go. When my work here is 
finished, I want to be with my daughter." 

Jonas had been staring glumly at the floor. Now he 
looked up, startled. "I didn't know you had a daughter, 
Giver! You told me that you'd had a spouse. But I never 
knew about your daughter." 

The Giver smiled, and nodded. For the first time in their 
long months together, Jonas saw him look truly happy. 

"Her name was Rosemary," The Giver said. 


21 


It would work. They could make it work, Jonas told him- 
self again and again throughout the day. 

But that evening everything changed. All of it — all the 
things they had thought through so meticulously — fell 
apart. 

That night, Jonas was forced to flee. He left the dwelling 
shortly after the sky became dark and the community still. It 
was terribly dangerous because some of the work crews 
were still about, but he moved stealthily and silently, stay- 
ing in the shadows, making his way past the darkened 
dwellings and the empty Central Plaza, toward the river. 
Beyond the Plaza he could see the House of the Old, with 
the Annex behind it, outlined against the night sky. But he 
could not stop there. There was no time. Every minute 
counted now, and every minute must take him farther from 
the community. 

Now he was on the bridge, hunched over on the bicycle, 
pedaling steadily. He could see the dark, churning water 
far below. 

He felt, surprisingly, no fear, nor any regret at leaving 


163 


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the community behind. But he felt a very deep sadness that 
he had left his closest friend behind. He knew that in the 
danger of his escape he must be absolutely silent; but with 
his heart and mind, he called back and hoped that with his 
capacity for hearing-beyond, The Giver would know that 
Jonas had said goodbye. 

It had happened at the evening meal. The family unit was 
eating together as always: Lily chattering away, Mother and 
Father making their customary comments (and lies, Jonas 
knew) about the day. Nearby, Gabriel played happily on the 
floor, babbling his baby talk, looking with glee now and 
then toward Jonas, obviously delighted to have him back 
after the unexpected night away from the dwelling. 

Father glanced down toward the toddler. "Enjoy it, little 
guy," he said. "This is your last night as visitor." 

"What do you mean?" Jonas asked him. 

Father sighed with disappointment. "Well, you know he 
wasn't here when you got home this morning because we 
had him stay overnight at the Nurturing Center. It seemed 
like a good opportunity, with you gone, to give it a try. 
He'd been sleeping so soundly." 

"Didn't it go well?" Mother asked sympathetically. 

Father gave a rueful laugh. "That's an understatement. It 
was a disaster. He cried all night, apparently. The night 
crew couldn't handle it. They were really frazzled by the 
time I got to work." 

"Gabe, you naughty thing," Lily said, with a scolding 
little cluck toward the grinning toddler on the floor. "So," 
Father went on, "we obviously had to make the 


decision. Even I voted for Gabriel's release when we had 
the meeting this afternoon." 

Jonas put down his fork and stared at his father. "Re- 
lease?" he asked. 

Father nodded. "We certainly gave it our best try, didn't 
we?" 

"Yes, we did," Mother agreed emphatically. 

Lily nodded in agreement, too. 

Jonas worked at keeping his voice absolutely calm. 
"When?" he asked. "When will he be released?" 

"First thing tomorrow morning. We have to start our 
preparations for the Naming Ceremony, so we thought we'd 
get this taken care of right away. 

"It's bye-bye to you, Gabe, in the morning," Father had 
said, in his sweet, sing-song voice. 

Jonas reached the opposite side of the river, stopped 
briefly, and looked back. The community where his entire 
life had been lived lay behind him now, sleeping. At dawn, 
the orderly, disciplined life he had always known would 
continue again, without him. The life where nothing was 
ever unexpected. Or inconvenient. Or unusual. The life 
without color, pain, or past. 

He pushed firmly again at the pedal with his foot and 
continued riding along the road. It was not safe to spend 
time looking back. He thought of the rules he had broken 
so far: enough that if he were caught, now, he would be 
condemned. 

First, he had left the dwelling at night. A major trans- 
gression. 

Second, he had robbed the community of food: a very 


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serious crime, even though what he had taken was left- 
overs, set out on the dwelling doorsteps for collection. 

Third, he had stolen his father's bicycle. He had hesi- 
tated for a moment, standing beside the bikeport in the 
darkness, not wanting anything of his father's and uncer- 
tain, as well, whether he could comfortably ride the larger 
bike when he was so accustomed to his own. 

But it was necessary because it had the child seat at- 
tached to the back. 

And he had taken Gabriel, too. 

He could feel the little head nudge his back, bouncing 
gently against him as he rode. Gabriel was sleeping 
soundly, strapped into the seat. Before he had left the 
dwelling, he had laid his hands firmly on Gabe's back and 
transmitted to him the most soothing memory he could: a 
slow-swinging hammock under palm trees on an island 
someplace, at evening, with a rhythmic sound of languid 
water lapping hypnotically against a beach nearby. As the 
memory seeped from him into the newchild, he could feel 
Gabe's sleep ease and deepen. There had been no stir at all 
when Jonas lifted him from the crib and placed him gently 
into the molded seat. 

He knew that he had the remaining hours of night be- 
fore they would be aware of his escape. So he rode hard, 
steadily, willing himself not to tire as the minutes and miles 
passed. There had been no time to receive the memories he 
and The Giver had counted on, of strength and courage. So 
he relied on what he had, and hoped it would be enough. 

He circled the outlying communities, their dwellings 


dark. Gradually the distances between communities wid- 
ened, with longer stretches of empty road. His legs ached 
at first; then, as time passed, they became numb. 

At dawn Gabriel began to stir. They were in an isolated 
place; fields on either side of the road were dotted with 
thickets of trees here and there. He saw a stream, and made 
his way to it across a rutted, bumpy meadow; Gabriel, 
wide awake now, giggled as the bicycle jolted him up and 
down. 

Jonas unstrapped Gabe, lifted him from the bike, and 
watched him investigate the grass and twigs with delight. 
Carefully he hid the bicycle in thick bushes. 

"Morning meal, Gabe!" He unwrapped some of the food 
and fed them both. Then he filled the cup he had brought 
with water from the stream and held it for Gabriel to drink. 
He drank thirstily himself, and sat by the stream, watching 
the newchild play. 

He was exhausted. He knew he must sleep, resting his 
own muscles and preparing himself for more hours on the 
bicycle. It would not be safe to travel in daylight. 

They would be looking for him soon. 

He found a place deeply hidden in the trees, took the 
newchild there, and lay down, holding Gabriel in his arms. 
Gabe struggled cheerfully as if it were a wrestling game, 
the kind they had played back in the dwelling, with tickles 
and laughter. 

"Sorry, Gabe," Jonas told him. "I know it's morning, 
and I know you just woke up. But we have to sleep now." 

He cuddled the small body close to him, and rubbed the 
little back. He murmured to Gabriel soothingly. Then 


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he pressed his hands firmly and transmitted a memory of 
deep, contented exhaustion. Gabriel's head nodded, after a 
moment, and fell against Jonas's chest. 

Together the fugitives slept through the first dangerous 
day. 

The most terrifying thing was the planes. By now, days 
had passed; Jonas no longer knew how many. The journey 
had become automatic: the sleep by days, hidden in un- 
derbrush and trees; the finding of water; the careful divi- 
sion of scraps of food, augmented by what he could find in 
the fields. And the endless, endless miles on the bicycle by 
night. 

His leg muscles were taut now. They ached when he 
settled himself to sleep. But they were stronger, and he 
stopped now less often to rest. Sometimes he paused and 
lifted Gabriel down for a brief bit of exercise, running 
down the road or through a field together in the dark. But 
always, when he returned, strapped the uncomplaining 
toddler into the seat again, and remounted, his legs were 
ready. 

So he had enough strength of his own, and had not 
needed what The Giver might have provided, had there 
been time. 

But when the planes came, he wished that he could have 
received the courage. 

He knew they were search planes. They flew so low that 
they woke him with the noise of their engines, and some- 
times, looking out and up fearfully from the hiding places, 
he could almost see the faces of the searchers. 

He knew that they could not see color, and that their 


flesh, as well as Gabriel's light golden curls, would be no 
more than smears of gray against the colorless foliage. But 
he remembered from his science and technology studies at 
school that the search planes used heat-seeking devices 
which could identify body warmth and would hone in on 
two humans huddled in shrubbery. 

So always, when he heard the aircraft sound, he reached 
to Gabriel and transmitted memories of snow, keeping some 
for himself. Together they became cold; and when the 
planes were gone, they would shiver, holding each other, 
until sleep came again. 

Sometimes, urging the memories into Gabriel, Jonas felt 
that they were more shallow, a little weaker than they had 
been. It was what he had hoped, and what he and The Giver 
had planned: that as he moved away from the community, 
he would shed the memories and leave them be-hind for the 
people. But now, when he needed them, when the planes 
came, he tried hard to cling to what he still had, of cold, 
and to use it for their survival. 

Usually the aircraft came by day, when they were hid- 
ing. But he was alert at night, too, on the road, always lis- 
tening intently for the sound of the engines. Even Gabriel 
listened, and would call out, "Plane! Plane!" sometimes 
before Jonas had heard the terrifying noise. When the air- 
craft searchers came, as they did occasionally, during the 
night as they rode, Jonas sped to the nearest tree or bush, 
dropped to the ground, and made himself and Gabriel cold. 
But it was sometimes a frighteningly close call. 

As he pedaled through the nights, through isolated 
landscape now, with the communities far behind and no 
sign of human habitation around him or ahead, he was 


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constantly vigilant, looking for the next nearest hiding place 
should the sound of engines come. 

But the frequency of the planes diminished. They came 
less often, and flew, when they did come, less slowly, as if 
the search had become haphazard and no longer hopeful. 
Finally there was an entire day and night when they did not 
come at all. 


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22 


Now the landscape was changing. It was a subtle change, 
hard to identify at first. The road was narrower, and bumpy, 
apparently no longer tended by road crews. It was harder, 
suddenly, to balance on the bike, as the front wheel wobbled 
over stones and ruts. 

One night Jonas fell, when the bike jolted to a sudden 
stop against a rock. He grabbed instinctively for Gabriel; and 
the newchild, strapped tightly in his seat, was uninjured, 
only frightened when the bike fell to its side. But Jonas's 
ankle was twisted, and his knees were scraped and raw, 
blood seeping through his tom trousers. Painfully he righted 
himself and the bike, and reassured Gabe. 

Tentatively he began to ride in daylight. He had forgot- 
ten the fear of the searchers, who seemed to have diminished 
into the past. But now there were new fears; the unfamiliar 
landscape held hidden, unknown perils. 

Trees became more numerous, and the forests beside the 
road were dark and thick with mystery. They saw streams 
more frequently now and stopped often to drink. Jonas 
carefully washed his injured knees, wincing as he rubbed at 
the raw flesh. The constant ache of his swollen ankle was 
eased when he soaked it occasionally in the cold water that 
rushed through roadside gullies. 


171 



He was newly aware that Gabriel's safety depended en- 
tirely upon his own continued strength. 

They saw their first waterfall, and for the first time 
wildlife. 

"Plane! Plane!" Gabriel called, and Jonas turned swiftly 
into the trees, though he had not seen planes in days, and 
he did not hear an aircraft engine now. When he stopped 
the bicycle in the shrubbery and turned to grab Gabe, he 
saw the small chubby arm pointing toward the sky. 

Terrified, he looked up, but it was not a plane at all. 
Though he had never seen one before, he identified it from 
his fading memories, for The Giver had given them to him 
often. It was a bird. 

Soon there were many birds along the way, soaring 
overhead, calling. They saw deer; and once, beside the road, 
looking at them curious and unafraid, a small reddish- 
brown creature with a thick tail, whose name Jonas did not 
know. He slowed the bike and they stared at one an-other 
until the creature turned away and disappeared into the 
woods. 

All of it was new to him. After a life of Sameness and 
predictability, he was awed by the surprises that lay beyond 
each curve of the road. He slowed the bike again and again 
to look with wonder at wildflowers, to enjoy the throaty 
warble of a new bird nearby, or merely to watch the way 
wind shifted the leaves in the trees. During his twelve years 
in the community, he had never felt such simple moments 
of exquisite happiness. 

But there were desperate fears building in him now as 
well. The most relentless of his new fears was that they 
would starve. Now that they had left the cultivated fields 


behind them, it was almost impossible to find food. They 
finished the meager store of potatoes and carrots they had 
saved from the last agricultural area, and now they were 
always hungry. 

Jonas knelt by a stream and tried without success to 
catch a fish with his hands. Frustrated, he threw rocks into 
the water, knowing even as he did so that it was useless. 
Finally, in desperation, he fashioned a makeshift net, 
looping the strands of Gabriel's blanket around a curved 
stick. 

After countless tries, the net yielded two flopping sil- 
very fish. Methodically Jonas hacked them to pieces with a 
sharp rock and fed the raw shreds to himself and to Ga- 
briel. They ate some berries, and tried without success to 
catch a bird. 

At night, while Gabriel slept beside him, Jonas lay 
awake, tortured by hunger, and remembered his life in the 
community where meals were delivered to each dwelling 
every day. 

He tried to use the flagging power of his memory to re- 
create meals, and managed brief, tantalizing fragments: 
banquets with huge roasted meats; birthday parties with 
thick-frosted cakes; and lush fruits picked and eaten, sun- 
warmed and dripping, from trees. 

But when the memory glimpses subsided, he was left 
with the gnawing, painful emptiness. Jonas remembered, 
suddenly and grimly, the time in his childhood when he had 
been chastised for misusing a word. The word had been 
"starving." You have never been starving, he had been told. 
You will never be starving. 

Now he was. If he had stayed in the community, he 


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would not be. It was as simple as that. Once he had yearned 
for choice. Then, when he had had a choice, he had made 
the wrong one: the choice to leave. And now he was 
starving. 

But if he had stayed ... 

His thoughts continued. If he had stayed, he would have 
starved in other ways. He would have lived a life hungry 
for feelings, for color, for love. 

And Gabriel? For Gabriel there would have been no life 
at all. So there had not really been a choice. 

It became a struggle to ride the bicycle as Jonas weak- 
ened from lack of food, and realized at the same time that 
he was encountering something he had for a long time 
yearned to see: hills. His sprained ankle throbbed as he 
forced the pedal downward in an effort that was almost 
beyond him. 

And the weather was changing. It rained for two days. 
Jonas had never seen rain, though he had experienced it 
often in the memories. He had liked those rains, enjoyed 
the new feeling of it, but this was different. He and Gabriel 
became cold and wet, and it was hard to get dry, even when 
sunshine occasionally followed. 

Gabriel had not cried during the long frightening jour- 
ney. Now he did. He cried because he was hungry and cold 
and terribly weak. Jonas cried, too, for the same reasons, 
and another reason as well. He wept because he was afraid 
now that he could not save Gabriel. He no longer cared 
about himself. 


23 


Jonas felt more and more certain that the destination lay 
ahead of him, very near now in the night that was ap- 
proaching. None of his senses confirmed it. He saw nothing 
ahead except the endless ribbon of road unfolding in 
twisting narrow curves. He heard no sound ahead. 

Yet he felt it: felt that Elsewhere was not far away. But 
he had little hope left that he would be able to reach it. His 
hope diminished further when the sharp, cold air began to 
blur and thicken with swirling white. 

Gabriel, wrapped in his inadequate blanket, was 
hunched, shivering, and silent in his little seat. Jonas 
stopped the bike wearily, lifted the child down, and real- 
ized with heartbreak how cold and weak Gabe had be- 
come. 

Standing in the freezing mound that was thickening 
around his numb feet, Jonas opened his own tunic, held 
Gabriel to his bare chest, and tied the tom and dirty blanket 
around them both. Gabriel moved feebly against him and 
whimpered briefly into the silence that surrounded them. 

Dimly, from a nearly forgotten perception as blurred as 
the substance itself, Jonas recalled what the whiteness was. 


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"It's called snow, Gabe," Jonas whispered. "Snow- 
flakes. They fall down from the sky, and they're very 
beautiful." 

There was no response from the child who had once 
been so curious and alert. Jonas looked down through the 
dusk at the little head against his chest. Gabriel's curly hair 
was matted and filthy, and there were tearstains out-lined 
in dirt on his pale cheeks. His eyes were closed. As Jonas 
watched, a snowflake drifted down and was caught briefly 
for a moment's sparkle in the tiny fluttering eye-lashes. 

Wearily he remounted the bicycle. A steep hill loomed 
ahead. In the best of conditions, the hill would have been a 
difficult, demanding ride. But now the rapidly deepening 
snow obscured the narrow road and made the ride im- 
possible. His front wheel moved forward imperceptibly as 
he pushed on the pedals with his numb, exhausted legs. 
But the bicycle stopped. It would not move. 

He got off and let it drop sideways into the snow. For a 
moment he thought how easy it would be to drop beside it 
himself, to let himself and Gabriel slide into the softness of 
snow, the darkness of night, the warm comfort of sleep. 

But he had come this far. He must try to go on. 

The memories had fallen behind him now, escaping 
from his protection to return to the people of his commu- 
nity. Were there any left at all? Could he hold onto a last 
bit of warmth? Did he still have the strength to Give? 
Could Gabriel still Receive? 

He pressed his hands into Gabriel's back and tried to 
remember sunshine. For a moment it seemed that nothing 
came to him, that his power was completely gone. Then it 


flickered suddenly, and he felt tiny tongues of heat begin to 
creep across and into his frozen feet and legs. He felt his 
face begin to glow and the tense, cold skin of his arms and 
hands relax. For a fleeting second he felt that he wanted to 
keep it for himself, to let himself bathe in sunlight, unbur- 
dened by anything or anyone else. 

But the moment passed and was followed by an urge, a 
need, a passionate yearning to share the warmth with the 
one person left for him to love. Aching from the effort, he 
forced the memory of warmth into the thin, shivering body 
in his arms. 

Gabriel stirred. For a moment they both were bathed in 
warmth and renewed strength as they stood hugging each 
other in the blinding snow. 

Jonas began to walk up the hill. 

The memory was agonizingly brief. He had trudged no 
more than a few yards through the night when it was gone 
and they were cold again. 

But his mind was alert now. Warming himself ever so 
briefly had shaken away the lethargy and resignation and 
restored his will to survive. He began to walk faster on feet 
that he could no longer feel. But the hill was treacherously 
steep; he was impeded by the snow and his own lack of 
strength. He didn't make it very far before he stumbled and 
fell forward. 

On his knees, unable to rise, Jonas tried a second time. 
His consciousness grasped at a wisp of another warm 
memory, and tried desperately to hold it there, to enlarge it, 
and pass it into Gabriel. His spirits and strength lifted with 
the momentary warmth and he stood. Again, Gabriel stirred 
against him as he began to climb. 


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But the memory faded, leaving him colder than before. 

If only he had had time to receive more warmth from 
The Giver before he escaped! Maybe there would be more 
left for him now. But there was no purpose in if-onlys. His 
entire concentration now had to be on moving his feet, 
warming Gabriel and himself, and going forward. 

He climbed, stopped, and warmed them both briefly 
again, with a tiny scrap of memory that seemed certainly to 
be all he had left. 

The top of the hill seemed so far away, and he did not 
know what lay beyond. But there was nothing left to do but 
continue. He trudged upward. 

As he approached the summit of the hill at last, some- 
thing began to happen. He was not warmer; if anything, he 
felt more numb and more cold. He was not less exhausted; 
on the contrary, his steps were leaden, and he could barely 
move his freezing, tired legs. 

But he began, suddenly, to feel happy. He began to re- 
call happy times. He remembered his parents and his sister. 
He remembered his friends, Asher and Fiona. He 
remembered The Giver. 

Memories of joy flooded through him suddenly. 

He reached the place where the hill crested and he could 
feel the ground under his snow-covered feet become level. It 
would not be uphill anymore. 

"We're almost there, Gabriel," he whispered, feeling 
quite certain without knowing why. "I remember this place, 
Gabe." And it was true. But it was not a grasping of a thin 
and burdensome recollection; this was different. This was 
something that he could keep. It was a memory of his own. 


He hugged Gabriel and rubbed him briskly, warming 
him, to keep him alive. The wind was bitterly cold. The 
snow swirled, blurring his vision. But somewhere ahead, 
through the blinding storm, he knew there was warmth and 
light. 

Using his final strength, and a special knowledge that 
was deep inside him, Jonas found the sled that was waiting 
for them at the top of the hill. Numbly his hands fumbled 
for the rope. 

He settled himself on the sled and hugged Gabe close. 
The hill was steep but the snow was powdery and soft, and 
he knew that this time there would be no ice, no fall, no 
pain. Inside his freezing body, his heart surged with hope. 

They started down. 

Jonas felt himself losing consciousness and with his 
whole being willed himself to stay upright atop the sled, 
clutching Gabriel, keeping him safe. The runners sliced 
through the snow and the wind whipped at his face as they 
sped in a straight line through an incision that seemed to 
lead to the final destination, the place that he had always 
felt was waiting, the Elsewhere that held their future and 
their past. 

He forced his eyes open as they went downward, down- 
ward, sliding, and all at once he could see lights, and he 
recognized them now. He knew they were shining through 
the windows of rooms, that they were the red, blue, and 
yellow lights that twinkled from trees in places where fam- 
ilies created and kept memories, where they celebrated 
love. 

Downward, downward, faster and faster. Suddenly he 


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was aware with certainty and joy that below, ahead, they 
were waiting for him; and that they were waiting, too, for the 
baby. For the first time, he heard something that he knew to 
be music. Fie heard people singing. 

Behind him, across vast distances of space and time, from 
the place he had left, he thought he heard music too. But 
perhaps it was only an echo. 


180